The BBC speculates that the Netherlands is a narco-state in the making. Apparently even the Mexican cartels are present in Amsterdam, which, for food-mavens, is a godsend. Import some cooks, amigos! It's been long known that the biggest danger to Dutch civilization was not the Muslims or Islamic fanatics, contrary to what Geert Wilders may have told all those gullible Americans, but rampant drug use in Europe facilitated and enabled by canny Dutchmen and Dutch-speaking Moroccans, as well as frighteningly near-British and Irish standards of cuisine.
The food of existential despair.
The Dutch immigrant Muslim community has not improved matters.
Newcomers came from poorer social strata with bad diets.
And grew grossly fat on Dutch fried foods.
Instead of cooking.
PEANUT SAUCE AND HERRING ON EVERYTHING!
Mexican drug lords at least come from a major culinary culture, so this development is an altogether positive thing. French fries with mayonnaise, while the nectar of the gods for resident Moroccans, Turks, and Israelis, are anathematic to narco-trafficante feinschmeckers. Even visiting drug addicts from England and Germany will be impressed by the improvements.
Have some flautas smothered in mole and queso blanco before you shoot that poison into your veins. Or, in Dutch: "geniet van flautas in mole gesmoord, met witte Mexikaansche kaas er over, voordat ge dat gif je aderen in spuit". These quesadillas with salsa verde are truly delicious, you German methamphetamine freak, try some! "Deze quesadillas met groene salsa zijn werkelijk voortreffelijk, gij Duitsche spied-friek, probeer ze eens!"
A watermelon Agua Fresca and some psychedelic drugs will take your mind entirely off Trump! "Een watermeloen Agua Fresca en 'n behoorlijke dosis psychedelische verdovingsmiddelen kunnen je aandacht helemaal van Trump afbrengen!" Chiles picante en escabeche! "Snoepgoed."
Oh, and please don't forget the hot sauce.
Sambal would also work.
AFTER THOUGHT
The Mocro-Maffia (Moroccan crimininal networks) have been disappointing in the culinary realm; coarse tastes, and not "connoisseurs" of anything other than cliché ways to kill people or victimize their own community.
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Thursday, December 19, 2019
A PLACE FOR GROWN-UPS
There are three places I fondly remember as indoor smoking environments: The Caffè Mediterraneum in Berkeley near all the bookstores, and the Caffè Trieste in North Beach. As well as a dive bar around the corner from my apartment. That last deserves mention especially because of the three old coots who ran the place, all three being cigarette smokers, and owners.
But when the laws passed, they could not smoke in their own bar.
The problem was that they were employees of the corporation that they owned, and thus had to be protected from themselves.
No other owners. And no other employees.
A piano. Cigarettes. Cocktails.
Middle-aged men. Music.
Yes, I agree, it sounds frightful? doesn't it. What if a pregnant woman wandered in and was harmed by badly sung showtunes?
It does not bear thinking about!
So, after several fines for breaking the law and endangering themselves, they decided that every half hour everyone would troop outside to enjoy the fresh air and a smoke, after which we'd all go back inside, and revisit our drinks.
They kept that up for a year and a half before deciding "oh screw this nonsense, we're retiring".
Which no doubt overjoyed the city gubmint, because after all tobacco and demon rum are killers for the kiddies. And we're opposed to that.
Depravity, vices, and corporate capitalism.
Bad examples for the kiddies.
Of course nowadays children never see people using drugs and sleeping on the streets either, and we no longer expose them to junk food and high sugar treats. We ensure that they don't hear about divorce, spousal abuse, fun medication, or street fights between psychopaths until they are adults.
All they get is yoga, tofu, essential oils, natural fibres.
The heroes of the past had no flaws.
Still, I remember browsing bookstores and then hurrying to a coffee shop or drinking establishment to devour my newest acquisition, with a beverage and a smoke. There were other people there doing the same. No children around, no tofu snacks, and nobody talking about yoga. No cellphones.
No wheat grass, OR gluten intolerance.
A golden age, with many evocative odours everywhere.
Books, Balkan blends, coffee.
Incense.
TOBACCO INDEX
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But when the laws passed, they could not smoke in their own bar.
The problem was that they were employees of the corporation that they owned, and thus had to be protected from themselves.
No other owners. And no other employees.
A piano. Cigarettes. Cocktails.
Middle-aged men. Music.
Yes, I agree, it sounds frightful? doesn't it. What if a pregnant woman wandered in and was harmed by badly sung showtunes?
It does not bear thinking about!
So, after several fines for breaking the law and endangering themselves, they decided that every half hour everyone would troop outside to enjoy the fresh air and a smoke, after which we'd all go back inside, and revisit our drinks.
They kept that up for a year and a half before deciding "oh screw this nonsense, we're retiring".
Which no doubt overjoyed the city gubmint, because after all tobacco and demon rum are killers for the kiddies. And we're opposed to that.
Depravity, vices, and corporate capitalism.
Bad examples for the kiddies.
Of course nowadays children never see people using drugs and sleeping on the streets either, and we no longer expose them to junk food and high sugar treats. We ensure that they don't hear about divorce, spousal abuse, fun medication, or street fights between psychopaths until they are adults.
All they get is yoga, tofu, essential oils, natural fibres.
The heroes of the past had no flaws.
Still, I remember browsing bookstores and then hurrying to a coffee shop or drinking establishment to devour my newest acquisition, with a beverage and a smoke. There were other people there doing the same. No children around, no tofu snacks, and nobody talking about yoga. No cellphones.
No wheat grass, OR gluten intolerance.
A golden age, with many evocative odours everywhere.
Books, Balkan blends, coffee.
Incense.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
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==========================================================================
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
A GENERATION OF RUTABAGAS
The news this morning is neither encouraging nor engaging. People are killing each other in places with foreign names, pundits are repeating themselves, India and Sweden are proving that they're rather repulsive countries, and movies I do not intend to see are "The". "Big". "Thing".
Where the heck did Baby Yoda come from?!?
Apparently there's a "Baby Yoda Frappuccino" at a popular coffee chain, which has been called "inspired", and "the most adorable" drink ever.
Matcha Green Tea Frap. Caramel syrup drizzles. Whipped cream and caramel ribbon crunchies on top, whatever that is or those are.
To say that I am on the fence about this is a colossal understatement. Nor have I seen a single episode of the television series from which the character on which this drink is allegedly based derives.
And frankly, the drink sounds disgusting.
Diabetic comas, for fun and profit.
Drinks from back in the stone age, of which I approve: espresso (small shot of steampress coffee), cappuccino ("Kapuziner"; espresso with warm milk foam floating on top), latte ("Franziskaner"; cappuccino with hot milk between the foam and the espresso), milchkaffee (equal parts hot milk and coffee, for children or to help you sleep at bedtime), Vietnamese Coffee (strong drip coffee with a dark roast and chicory, often a little sweetened condensed milk). Ice tea (Southern United States beverage that goes well with grits), English Tea (strong black tea, and either milk or sugar, served in the middle of the afternoon while lamenting those foreigners), Hong Kong Milk Tea (strong black tea made with a little Pu-Erh in the blend, with sweetened condensed milk added, warm, comforting, and if strong enough better than methamphetamine for sending you back up twenty stories of rickety bamboo scaffolding, or pulling a late night at the counting house while waiting for the boss to finally go home).
Espresso, Cappuccino, Latte, Milchkaffee, Cà phê đá.
Ice tea. Tea-time Tea. Hong Kong Milk Tea.
So-called American coffee is crap, Dutch coffee is either strong drip coffee or pale variations on espresso. English people can't make coffee.
Irish coffee was invented in San Francisco for alcoholics.
The preferred smokes with all of these are, for pipe smokers: Latakia blends or good Virginia mixtures, no aromatics whatsoever you damned heathens.
For cigarette smokers: State Express non-filter 555 smuggled in from Asia, Woodbines, Gitanes (no longer available dammit) and Gauloises (see 'Gitanes'). Or ryo dark Dutch shag tobacco (e.g.: Javaansche Jongens).
Cigar smokers: een tutiknakje van Hajenius, of een Glorie Van Java (Oud Kampen). Outside of the civilized world substitute a Panter Cigarillo.
Do you see syrup anywhere in these items? Well?
Syrup coffee drinks are heresy.
Destroy with fire.
I wish to register strong Calvinist disapproval of all this.
On my second strong cup of coffee this morning. The pipe is a Kaywoodie Export (push tenon, no fills, old briar) squat bulldog that I've had for years, loaded with a Virginia blend including thirty percent dark flake from the previous century, plus red and blonde cake, with a smidgeon of Perique.
It fills the air with an ancient perfume. It's raining outside, and I dread the prospect of going up the hill to do laundry. Perhaps I should fry up some sausages instead, and be a vegetable for the rest of the afternoon?
But I will head over to C'town for a cup of milk-tea later.
There are some things I cannot omit.
Must be active.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Where the heck did Baby Yoda come from?!?
Apparently there's a "Baby Yoda Frappuccino" at a popular coffee chain, which has been called "inspired", and "the most adorable" drink ever.
Matcha Green Tea Frap. Caramel syrup drizzles. Whipped cream and caramel ribbon crunchies on top, whatever that is or those are.
To say that I am on the fence about this is a colossal understatement. Nor have I seen a single episode of the television series from which the character on which this drink is allegedly based derives.
And frankly, the drink sounds disgusting.
Diabetic comas, for fun and profit.
Drinks from back in the stone age, of which I approve: espresso (small shot of steampress coffee), cappuccino ("Kapuziner"; espresso with warm milk foam floating on top), latte ("Franziskaner"; cappuccino with hot milk between the foam and the espresso), milchkaffee (equal parts hot milk and coffee, for children or to help you sleep at bedtime), Vietnamese Coffee (strong drip coffee with a dark roast and chicory, often a little sweetened condensed milk). Ice tea (Southern United States beverage that goes well with grits), English Tea (strong black tea, and either milk or sugar, served in the middle of the afternoon while lamenting those foreigners), Hong Kong Milk Tea (strong black tea made with a little Pu-Erh in the blend, with sweetened condensed milk added, warm, comforting, and if strong enough better than methamphetamine for sending you back up twenty stories of rickety bamboo scaffolding, or pulling a late night at the counting house while waiting for the boss to finally go home).
Espresso, Cappuccino, Latte, Milchkaffee, Cà phê đá.
Ice tea. Tea-time Tea. Hong Kong Milk Tea.
So-called American coffee is crap, Dutch coffee is either strong drip coffee or pale variations on espresso. English people can't make coffee.
Irish coffee was invented in San Francisco for alcoholics.
The preferred smokes with all of these are, for pipe smokers: Latakia blends or good Virginia mixtures, no aromatics whatsoever you damned heathens.
For cigarette smokers: State Express non-filter 555 smuggled in from Asia, Woodbines, Gitanes (no longer available dammit) and Gauloises (see 'Gitanes'). Or ryo dark Dutch shag tobacco (e.g.: Javaansche Jongens).
Cigar smokers: een tutiknakje van Hajenius, of een Glorie Van Java (Oud Kampen). Outside of the civilized world substitute a Panter Cigarillo.
Do you see syrup anywhere in these items? Well?
Syrup coffee drinks are heresy.
Destroy with fire.
I wish to register strong Calvinist disapproval of all this.
On my second strong cup of coffee this morning. The pipe is a Kaywoodie Export (push tenon, no fills, old briar) squat bulldog that I've had for years, loaded with a Virginia blend including thirty percent dark flake from the previous century, plus red and blonde cake, with a smidgeon of Perique.
It fills the air with an ancient perfume. It's raining outside, and I dread the prospect of going up the hill to do laundry. Perhaps I should fry up some sausages instead, and be a vegetable for the rest of the afternoon?
But I will head over to C'town for a cup of milk-tea later.
There are some things I cannot omit.
Must be active.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
IN THE NATURE OF A RANT
One of the ways you can tell that you're getting older, or have lost a lot of weight, is when cold weather becomes a pain in the postern. While outside having a smoke I was staggered and appalled by the number of people with bare arms or bare legs. Probably New Yorkers, thin crust pizza eaters, sneering East Coasters, and health freaks. Arrogant young monsters.
Idiots. It's cold! Cover yourselves!
A-shirt, tee-shirt, flannel shirt, sweater, and a thick lined coat.
That's at least six layers between me and the air.
And all-together barely enough.
It's fifty degrees outside. That's sixteen degrees warmer than in New York, so of course those people are sneering. Anybody who has watched the series 'Friends', 'Seinfeld', or 'Kojak' knows that Nyawkers gambol nude in fountains during weather like this. While saying vulgar things.
I've got two pairs of socks on.
When I was at a chachanteng having a late lunch earlier, it took half an hour for my fingers to stop being blue. Raynaud's phenomenon.
Cite:
"Raynaud's (ray-NOHZ) disease causes some areas of your body — such as your fingers and toes — to feel numb and cold in response to cold temperatures or stress. In Raynaud's disease, smaller arteries that supply blood to your skin narrow, limiting blood circulation to affected areas (vasospasm)."
"Women are more likely than men to have Raynaud's disease, also known as Raynaud or Raynaud's phenomenon or syndrome. It appears to be more common in people who live in colder climates."
End cite.
From Mayo Clinic -- Raynaud's Disease.
Also:
"[ ] ... it can affect your quality of life."
No sh*t, Sherlock! I had trouble filling my briar pipe properly, and panicked in the men's room when I could not feel the zipper, OR the opening in my boxer shorts. And calling the waitress in for help just is not 'on'.
Fortunately, I possess great self-control and aplomb.
I seriously wonder how she stands the cold.
She had less clothing on than I did.
And she's painfully scrawny.
No insulation at all.
Must be sheer force of will.
Cantonese stubbornness.
LATE LUNCH
Had bitter melon omelette over rice (涼瓜煎蛋飯 'leung gwaa jin daan faan') with sploodges of Sriracha hot sauce while watching a soap opera (人間故事 'yan gaan gu si'). Something sappy about a young man who returns to his home village at the exact time his childhood sweetheart is getting married. Things ensue. The agricultural enterprise of the village appears to involve growing flowers. I never developed much interest in the story; it was very slow, Northern, Chinese, and then badly dubbed into Cantonese.
The childhood sweetheart looked exactly like one of those 'good girl' wussy types. That typical bland propaganda poster prettiness.
After eating I went out and froze.
A gaily hoppity hopping little girl at the bus stop.
And a small boy with a stuffed rabbit.
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LETTER BOX.
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==========================================================================
Idiots. It's cold! Cover yourselves!
A-shirt, tee-shirt, flannel shirt, sweater, and a thick lined coat.
That's at least six layers between me and the air.
And all-together barely enough.
It's fifty degrees outside. That's sixteen degrees warmer than in New York, so of course those people are sneering. Anybody who has watched the series 'Friends', 'Seinfeld', or 'Kojak' knows that Nyawkers gambol nude in fountains during weather like this. While saying vulgar things.
I've got two pairs of socks on.
When I was at a chachanteng having a late lunch earlier, it took half an hour for my fingers to stop being blue. Raynaud's phenomenon.
Cite:
"Raynaud's (ray-NOHZ) disease causes some areas of your body — such as your fingers and toes — to feel numb and cold in response to cold temperatures or stress. In Raynaud's disease, smaller arteries that supply blood to your skin narrow, limiting blood circulation to affected areas (vasospasm)."
"Women are more likely than men to have Raynaud's disease, also known as Raynaud or Raynaud's phenomenon or syndrome. It appears to be more common in people who live in colder climates."
End cite.
From Mayo Clinic -- Raynaud's Disease.
Also:
"[ ] ... it can affect your quality of life."
No sh*t, Sherlock! I had trouble filling my briar pipe properly, and panicked in the men's room when I could not feel the zipper, OR the opening in my boxer shorts. And calling the waitress in for help just is not 'on'.
Fortunately, I possess great self-control and aplomb.
I seriously wonder how she stands the cold.
She had less clothing on than I did.
And she's painfully scrawny.
No insulation at all.
Must be sheer force of will.
Cantonese stubbornness.
LATE LUNCH
Had bitter melon omelette over rice (涼瓜煎蛋飯 'leung gwaa jin daan faan') with sploodges of Sriracha hot sauce while watching a soap opera (人間故事 'yan gaan gu si'). Something sappy about a young man who returns to his home village at the exact time his childhood sweetheart is getting married. Things ensue. The agricultural enterprise of the village appears to involve growing flowers. I never developed much interest in the story; it was very slow, Northern, Chinese, and then badly dubbed into Cantonese.
The childhood sweetheart looked exactly like one of those 'good girl' wussy types. That typical bland propaganda poster prettiness.
After eating I went out and froze.
A gaily hoppity hopping little girl at the bus stop.
And a small boy with a stuffed rabbit.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TIME FOR ANOTHER SELF-REFERENTIAL VENN DIAGRAM!
Pursuant a post about the inane extroversion of dogs and an idiotic musical about cats I made some mention of the types of people whom cats will get along with. And it should be mentioned that I know several cats, many of which I see when I wander around Chinatown. Store cats. Very independent minded individuals who like to be scritched, especially on the back of their heads right behind the ears. They are 'social', but not severely so. Feel free to deal with them on an equal to equal basis. But please do not presume.
I enjoy their attention, and do not talk down to them.
[Well, in a sense I do. Can't stoop very well.]
Nice creatures. Haven't gotten low enough to look them in the eye or guess what they like to eat. But I would imagine that they have carnivore breath.
I think they are active mousers, and I would believe that their humans are rather fond of them, but NOT in the wuzza wuzza wuzza fashion.
A commenter (Frau Doktor W) on the post referenced wrote: "The stray cats of Jerusalem like me; though I fear that of your list of folk that cats like I fit squarely into the "grouchy old lady" category despite not having achieved even two score years."
That calls for a Venn Diagram that many dog-owners just will not understand.
If I had a cat, I would probably do laundry much more often; cats like piles of warm clean clothes. And I might actually be a more likeable person.
Cats, as is well-known, have an affinity for pipe smokers.
Which is very often reciprocated.
Hello Kitty isn't a cat.
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LETTER BOX.
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==========================================================================
I enjoy their attention, and do not talk down to them.
[Well, in a sense I do. Can't stoop very well.]
Nice creatures. Haven't gotten low enough to look them in the eye or guess what they like to eat. But I would imagine that they have carnivore breath.
I think they are active mousers, and I would believe that their humans are rather fond of them, but NOT in the wuzza wuzza wuzza fashion.
A commenter (Frau Doktor W) on the post referenced wrote: "The stray cats of Jerusalem like me; though I fear that of your list of folk that cats like I fit squarely into the "grouchy old lady" category despite not having achieved even two score years."
That calls for a Venn Diagram that many dog-owners just will not understand.
If I had a cat, I would probably do laundry much more often; cats like piles of warm clean clothes. And I might actually be a more likeable person.
Cats, as is well-known, have an affinity for pipe smokers.
Which is very often reciprocated.
Hello Kitty isn't a cat.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DID SOMEONE YOWL?
There are several dogs that visit where I work. They have pleasant enough personalities, but there is no very great character development there, they're dogs. Waggy sniffy and biscuit snarfing. A few are stupid or insane, just like their owners. There are no cats. Probably because even in Marin people realize that felines do not take well to leashes, and will be problematic during car rides.
While I like the dogs -- even the paranoid Dachshund who thinks that I am a dangerous beatnik and won't come closer than two feet distance -- cats are more interesting creatures and better companions. And naturally the movie of the musical 'Cats' is something I have absolutely no wish to see.
I can, in fact, think of no worse torment.
Dogs will probably love it.
Not that I am opposed to singing dancing prancing humans pretending to be animals. But what would give me great pleasure is a musical about crows cracking nuts at stoplights, investigating complex problems, and giddily discovering a fresh roadkill carcass. Or raccoons feasting upon fresh garbage can guts.
I suspect that my apartment mate would be drawn to a show with savage gangster hamsters, and several of us would like a stage production featuring large pythons swallowing farm animals and hissing melodically.
"Serpents in love, twining, twining ..... "
A musical about cats just seems like a bad overlap between cutesy-poo and psychosis. What is it with you people? Have you never been around actual cats? Or have you put too much saccharine in your wheatiebix?
The cats despise you lot. They wish to feed you dead rodents and shred your ankles. If you didn't have opposable thumbs and know how to use can openers or open back doors, they'd vomit into your laundry hamper and run off. Cats like librarians, archivists, calmly rational students of mechanical or architectural engineering, grouchy old ladies, and evil geniuses. You folks are moo-herds; cats prefer solitary people who will occasionally extend a paw to scritch that spot behind the ears that no one can reach.
They would like dogs, sort of, if those creatures would stop being so damned enthusiastic and extrovert.
Make a musical about dogs; it would be more realistic.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
While I like the dogs -- even the paranoid Dachshund who thinks that I am a dangerous beatnik and won't come closer than two feet distance -- cats are more interesting creatures and better companions. And naturally the movie of the musical 'Cats' is something I have absolutely no wish to see.
I can, in fact, think of no worse torment.
Dogs will probably love it.
Not that I am opposed to singing dancing prancing humans pretending to be animals. But what would give me great pleasure is a musical about crows cracking nuts at stoplights, investigating complex problems, and giddily discovering a fresh roadkill carcass. Or raccoons feasting upon fresh garbage can guts.
I suspect that my apartment mate would be drawn to a show with savage gangster hamsters, and several of us would like a stage production featuring large pythons swallowing farm animals and hissing melodically.
"Serpents in love, twining, twining ..... "
A musical about cats just seems like a bad overlap between cutesy-poo and psychosis. What is it with you people? Have you never been around actual cats? Or have you put too much saccharine in your wheatiebix?
The cats despise you lot. They wish to feed you dead rodents and shred your ankles. If you didn't have opposable thumbs and know how to use can openers or open back doors, they'd vomit into your laundry hamper and run off. Cats like librarians, archivists, calmly rational students of mechanical or architectural engineering, grouchy old ladies, and evil geniuses. You folks are moo-herds; cats prefer solitary people who will occasionally extend a paw to scritch that spot behind the ears that no one can reach.
They would like dogs, sort of, if those creatures would stop being so damned enthusiastic and extrovert.
Make a musical about dogs; it would be more realistic.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, December 16, 2019
GO AHEAD; BURN SOMETHING
The first year I lived in this apartment I had a Christmas tree. Which, having let the designated pick-up day slip by, I ended up rendering into to trash baggable fragments with a saw in the middle of summer. That cured me of any desire to repeat the experience, and I have not decorated for the yuletide celebration since then.
In all honesty, I am not thoroughly vested in Christmas, particularly not the American version with the horrible movies and ghastly songs in tinkly children's voices.
Bah, as they say, humbug.
Seeing as the midwinter festival is originally about banishing darkness and the perception of a return to light, post solstice, it would make complete sense if we were to burn effigies of what we hate. A mass cleansing through public bonfires. Mitch McConnell and Lindsey Graham in papier-mâché. As well as their bitch wives, followers, and orange pedo-Jesus.
As just theoretical examples.
Far be it from me to think outside the box on this one.
We narrowly escaped Christmas music at work today.
I am NOT buying anybody an X-box this year.
Maybe some matches or a lighter.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
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In all honesty, I am not thoroughly vested in Christmas, particularly not the American version with the horrible movies and ghastly songs in tinkly children's voices.
Bah, as they say, humbug.
Seeing as the midwinter festival is originally about banishing darkness and the perception of a return to light, post solstice, it would make complete sense if we were to burn effigies of what we hate. A mass cleansing through public bonfires. Mitch McConnell and Lindsey Graham in papier-mâché. As well as their bitch wives, followers, and orange pedo-Jesus.
As just theoretical examples.
Far be it from me to think outside the box on this one.
We narrowly escaped Christmas music at work today.
I am NOT buying anybody an X-box this year.
Maybe some matches or a lighter.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE EARLY CUP
Woke up in the middle of the night with the phrase "hai hou fuk jaap ge" (係好複雜嘅 "it's very complicated") at the top of my head, then had a sneezing fit. And note that whatever it was, was not "gwai sei fuk jaap" (鬼死複雜 "devil dead complicated"); extremely or extraordinarily complicated. Which I cannot remember, whatever it was. Fuk jaap: overlappingly mixed, or folded variously, literally, hence complicated like the Dutch word "ingewikkeld", which means all twisted together and inextricably complex. The English word 'complicated' means folded together, from Latin com + plicare.
Yep, too much coffee before falling asleep.
And I'm on my first cup of the day now.
Just buzzing with heppy goodness.
SYNAPSES ALL SPARKY
Modern life would be impossible without caffeine. You will recall that last year some bunch of know-nothing do-gooders (the Council for Education and Research on Toxics) had demanded warning labels on coffee, to which a judge agreed. In August of that year FDA commissioner Scott Gottlieb recommended that they all pull their collective heads out of their collective donkey, writing "strong and consistent evidence shows that in healthy adults, moderate coffee consumption is not associated with an increased risk of major chronic diseases, such as cancer, or premature death, and some evidence suggests that coffee consumption may decrease the risk of certain cancers."
"Evidence shows that in healthy adults, moderate coffee consumption is not associated with an increased risk of major chronic diseases; evidence suggests that coffee consumption may decrease the risk of certain cancers"
So for the time being you don't have to see a fright-statement on the side of your Starbucks paper cup telling you that the State of California thinks you're gonna die horribly or suffer infertility, low birthweight, or crippling insomnia.
Without caffeine the last four and a half centuries of human history would have been quite different. Western society would be still swilling beer or wine for breakfast, because ditch water kills you, and all of Northern Europe would be lacquered by lunch. The scattered settlements in North America would be limited to a belt along the Eastern seaboard where the Indians had become non-dangerous alcoholics, and we'd still be hunting beavers as our primary economic enterprise.
Plus our disease burden would be vastly greater, because advanced medicine requires sound sober science and knowledge of sterilization, not syphilitic drunken barbers dispensing opium and mercury compounds.
There would almost certainly be no vaccination, no preventative care worth a damn, high levels of malnutrition, and huge numbers of early deaths from entirely preventable causes.
We would all be pin-headed from booze-related birth defects.
The computer screen on which you read this would not exist.
Life, in a word, would be fuk chaap ge.
More than it needed to be.
Shorter, too.
Likewise, the anti-vax movement would not exist, and gluten-phobes would still be smelling out witchcraft and heresy.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
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==========================================================================
Yep, too much coffee before falling asleep.
And I'm on my first cup of the day now.
Just buzzing with heppy goodness.
SYNAPSES ALL SPARKY
Modern life would be impossible without caffeine. You will recall that last year some bunch of know-nothing do-gooders (the Council for Education and Research on Toxics) had demanded warning labels on coffee, to which a judge agreed. In August of that year FDA commissioner Scott Gottlieb recommended that they all pull their collective heads out of their collective donkey, writing "strong and consistent evidence shows that in healthy adults, moderate coffee consumption is not associated with an increased risk of major chronic diseases, such as cancer, or premature death, and some evidence suggests that coffee consumption may decrease the risk of certain cancers."
"Evidence shows that in healthy adults, moderate coffee consumption is not associated with an increased risk of major chronic diseases; evidence suggests that coffee consumption may decrease the risk of certain cancers"
So for the time being you don't have to see a fright-statement on the side of your Starbucks paper cup telling you that the State of California thinks you're gonna die horribly or suffer infertility, low birthweight, or crippling insomnia.
Without caffeine the last four and a half centuries of human history would have been quite different. Western society would be still swilling beer or wine for breakfast, because ditch water kills you, and all of Northern Europe would be lacquered by lunch. The scattered settlements in North America would be limited to a belt along the Eastern seaboard where the Indians had become non-dangerous alcoholics, and we'd still be hunting beavers as our primary economic enterprise.
Plus our disease burden would be vastly greater, because advanced medicine requires sound sober science and knowledge of sterilization, not syphilitic drunken barbers dispensing opium and mercury compounds.
There would almost certainly be no vaccination, no preventative care worth a damn, high levels of malnutrition, and huge numbers of early deaths from entirely preventable causes.
We would all be pin-headed from booze-related birth defects.
The computer screen on which you read this would not exist.
Life, in a word, would be fuk chaap ge.
More than it needed to be.
Shorter, too.
Likewise, the anti-vax movement would not exist, and gluten-phobes would still be smelling out witchcraft and heresy.
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Sunday, December 15, 2019
A STERLING GAME
It should not surprise you that this blogger has no vested interest in the victories or defeats of the local team. But the sadness in the back room today was epic. At least three of those estimable aged gentlemen had meltdowns. Tantrums. Despair. Despondency. Weeping fits. Tourettes. Great grief, hysterics, vapours, melodramatic wailing, and emotional trauma which will take years of therapy to get over.
It was very edifying.
It left me and the New Yorker as the adults in the room.
That does not often happen. Well for him it probably does, seeing as he is often snarkily rational, and can always make all the other men there seem like idiots by explaining exactly how and why they're stupid. But I tend towards brutality, and delight in telling them that they are fools and nobody loves them, without explaining that in language they can understand.
Simple terms, no more than two syllables.
I used to think that J the member of the judicial branch was sane and rational until he started being fair and balanced about Trump instead of justifiably partisan and murderous like a normal person.
He's an apologist for the regime.
Anyhow, the Niners lost today, and they all had mental breakdowns. Their Holiday Season is ruined. No more enjoyment till sometime next year, their lives have become bleak and dreary, pizza has lost its flavour, hard liquour does not deaden the pain, and their cigars taste like burning leaves.
More of their hair is failling out, even on the unseen places.
Their sweaty hands now tremble, weak and palsied.
The gumlines are fast receding.
Knees are watery.
If most of them weren't bald already, their hair would be thinning at a more rapid clip, and their discharges would be more watery.
Woe. Woe. Woe.
The Atlanta Falcons are clearly a better team, and reflect a better city, and better beer choices. I commend them on their victory.
They played a splendid game.
Kudos, boys.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It was very edifying.
It left me and the New Yorker as the adults in the room.
That does not often happen. Well for him it probably does, seeing as he is often snarkily rational, and can always make all the other men there seem like idiots by explaining exactly how and why they're stupid. But I tend towards brutality, and delight in telling them that they are fools and nobody loves them, without explaining that in language they can understand.
Simple terms, no more than two syllables.
I used to think that J the member of the judicial branch was sane and rational until he started being fair and balanced about Trump instead of justifiably partisan and murderous like a normal person.
He's an apologist for the regime.
Anyhow, the Niners lost today, and they all had mental breakdowns. Their Holiday Season is ruined. No more enjoyment till sometime next year, their lives have become bleak and dreary, pizza has lost its flavour, hard liquour does not deaden the pain, and their cigars taste like burning leaves.
More of their hair is failling out, even on the unseen places.
Their sweaty hands now tremble, weak and palsied.
The gumlines are fast receding.
Knees are watery.
If most of them weren't bald already, their hair would be thinning at a more rapid clip, and their discharges would be more watery.
Woe. Woe. Woe.
The Atlanta Falcons are clearly a better team, and reflect a better city, and better beer choices. I commend them on their victory.
They played a splendid game.
Kudos, boys.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
COFFEE BEFORE BEDTIME
It struck me in the middle of the night that it has been ages since I hugged a naked person. Now, you might think that in a city like San Francisco, where it seems that nearly everyone is a hedonist AND there are tonnes of free spirits, that could not possibly be so. But one must exercise discretion.
Many of the hedonists and free spirits are old and crazy.
In the main I do not mix much with old nuts. Life is too short.
The great advantages of hugging a naked person, especially during the cold season around the holidays, are warmth, and a reasonable semblance of actual human contact.
There you will be, in the middle of freezing sleet and driving rain, hugging a naked person, and suddenly life doesn't seem so bad.
Please ignore those sirens coming nearer.
Or comments from passers-by.
Don't let the jealousy of random strangers affect you. Their lives are empty, and they lack naked people to hug. Cold, sterile, no human contact.
Please imagine a want ad: "sane and dispassionate pipe smoking Dutch American who bathes nearly enough seeks warm-bodied sensible individual of the suitable gender who is NOT seeing a therapist regularly and does not believe herself a strong spiritual being or incredibly gifted and artistic for occasional experimental nude hugging during cold wet weather."
"Persons channeling for two thousand year old warrioresses needn't apply".
"Nor recent or habitual marijuana users, or dipsomaniacs".
"Vaccinations are a sine qua non".
"No gluten-phobes".
"Serious inquiries only".
"Must read books".
"No freaks".
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Many of the hedonists and free spirits are old and crazy.
In the main I do not mix much with old nuts. Life is too short.
The great advantages of hugging a naked person, especially during the cold season around the holidays, are warmth, and a reasonable semblance of actual human contact.
There you will be, in the middle of freezing sleet and driving rain, hugging a naked person, and suddenly life doesn't seem so bad.
Please ignore those sirens coming nearer.
Or comments from passers-by.
Don't let the jealousy of random strangers affect you. Their lives are empty, and they lack naked people to hug. Cold, sterile, no human contact.
Please imagine a want ad: "sane and dispassionate pipe smoking Dutch American who bathes nearly enough seeks warm-bodied sensible individual of the suitable gender who is NOT seeing a therapist regularly and does not believe herself a strong spiritual being or incredibly gifted and artistic for occasional experimental nude hugging during cold wet weather."
"Persons channeling for two thousand year old warrioresses needn't apply".
"Nor recent or habitual marijuana users, or dipsomaniacs".
"Vaccinations are a sine qua non".
"No gluten-phobes".
"Serious inquiries only".
"Must read books".
"No freaks".
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, December 14, 2019
THINGS YOU NEVER TELL YOUR DOCTOR
Not that I have, but I shall never mention to my doctor that there are five health clubs and exercise studios within very easy walking distance of my apartment; he would suggest that I join. When in fact at work I have the equivalent of a ten or twenty mile hike every day (four days a week), and the only other exercise I want to have is traversing Stockton Street from New Honolulu to Little Wheat Field. All or part of that distance. six blocks total.
From the bittermelon omelette OR baked porkchop over spaghetti covered with melted cheese to the Portuguese egg tarts and red bean biscuits.
從新品味到小麥田
There are over a score of eateries in Chinatown to which regular exercise on my days off will take me, and that's plenty of walking.
Nor will I inform him of recent coughing jags in the morning. He would tell me that this indicates that I should quit smoking forthwith, while gaily ignoring the prevalence at this time of seasonal colds and respiratory ailments. Such as the one currently afflicting me, which is on the wane, and which I've been hiding during the working day because three of my co-workers are totally paranoid. As they should be.
But not because of a cold.
And surely everyone wakes up occasionally with a small stubborn gorilla on top of one's pile of clothing clutching one's wallet, and exclaiming happily "it is mine, I found it!" Such as happened recently.
If I tell that to my doctor he'd recommend counseling. "Subject is depressed, and hearing things". He would ignore the context (the private lives of stuffed creatures, the voices, the socialization of small furry entities), and go straight for the worrisome symptom.
I'm not sure, but I suspect that the good man does not encounter patients who regularly have to argue with a Froad, two monkeys, a sheep, and a cow, that the leathery thing does not belong to them, and they may not use the rectangular plastic card within to browse the internet.
Recently their number has been augmented by a turkey vulture.
Who wishes to have cadavers delivered.
He's hungry.
We adopted Sydney Fylbert a few days ago, as an early birthday present for my apartment mate. He's from New York. Where, apparently, there are loads of fresh cadavers, why, the streets are positively littered with them!
And they're flat and crispy!
Remarkably, the bookseller with whom I enjoy regular late night weekly visits to places in North Beach returned from New York a fortnight ago, where he had a wonderful time. As he does once or twice a year.
Must be all those cadavers.
Most of my doctor's patients are Chinese American, and not given to voices.
Middle aged Dutch Americans are not a key demographic.
We hide ourselves extremely well.
With our beasts.
Shush!
AFTERWORD
There are of course many other good things to eat in Chinatown. Such as egg tarts (蛋撻 'dan taat'), flaky barbecue turnovers (叉燒酥 'chaa siu sou'), coconut tarts (椰撻 'ye taat'), roast duck (燒鴨 'siu ngaap'), steamed fish (蒸魚 'jing yü'), pan-fried noodles (沙河粉 'chaau ho fan'), steamed rice sheet noodle (腸粉 'cheung fan'), tomato porkchop (番茄豬扒飯 'faan ke chü paa faan'), fermented black bean sauce spare ribs 豆豉排骨 ('dau si pai gwat'), baked fish (焗魚 'guk yü'), Portuguese chicken rice (焗葡國雞飯 'guk pou gwok gai faan'), steamed pork patty with salt fish (鹹魚蒸肉餅 'haam yü jing yiuk beng'), salt fish chicken fried rice (鹹魚雞粒炒飯 'haam yü gai naap chaau faan'), pork and vegetable buns ( 菜肉飽 'choi yuk baau'), congee (粥 'juk'), and wonton noodle soup (雲吞湯麵 'wan tan tong min'), which is perfect for a rainy day.
Neither my doctor nor the turkey buzzard hold with such things, alas.
I have not found the piggy buns (猪仔包 'chü chai baau') yet.
But I'm still discovering good things to eat.
Always keep looking.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
From the bittermelon omelette OR baked porkchop over spaghetti covered with melted cheese to the Portuguese egg tarts and red bean biscuits.
從新品味到小麥田
There are over a score of eateries in Chinatown to which regular exercise on my days off will take me, and that's plenty of walking.
Nor will I inform him of recent coughing jags in the morning. He would tell me that this indicates that I should quit smoking forthwith, while gaily ignoring the prevalence at this time of seasonal colds and respiratory ailments. Such as the one currently afflicting me, which is on the wane, and which I've been hiding during the working day because three of my co-workers are totally paranoid. As they should be.
But not because of a cold.
And surely everyone wakes up occasionally with a small stubborn gorilla on top of one's pile of clothing clutching one's wallet, and exclaiming happily "it is mine, I found it!" Such as happened recently.
If I tell that to my doctor he'd recommend counseling. "Subject is depressed, and hearing things". He would ignore the context (the private lives of stuffed creatures, the voices, the socialization of small furry entities), and go straight for the worrisome symptom.
I'm not sure, but I suspect that the good man does not encounter patients who regularly have to argue with a Froad, two monkeys, a sheep, and a cow, that the leathery thing does not belong to them, and they may not use the rectangular plastic card within to browse the internet.
Recently their number has been augmented by a turkey vulture.
Who wishes to have cadavers delivered.
He's hungry.
SYDNEY FYLBERT
We adopted Sydney Fylbert a few days ago, as an early birthday present for my apartment mate. He's from New York. Where, apparently, there are loads of fresh cadavers, why, the streets are positively littered with them!
And they're flat and crispy!
Remarkably, the bookseller with whom I enjoy regular late night weekly visits to places in North Beach returned from New York a fortnight ago, where he had a wonderful time. As he does once or twice a year.
Must be all those cadavers.
Most of my doctor's patients are Chinese American, and not given to voices.
Middle aged Dutch Americans are not a key demographic.
We hide ourselves extremely well.
With our beasts.
Shush!
AFTERWORD
There are of course many other good things to eat in Chinatown. Such as egg tarts (蛋撻 'dan taat'), flaky barbecue turnovers (叉燒酥 'chaa siu sou'), coconut tarts (椰撻 'ye taat'), roast duck (燒鴨 'siu ngaap'), steamed fish (蒸魚 'jing yü'), pan-fried noodles (沙河粉 'chaau ho fan'), steamed rice sheet noodle (腸粉 'cheung fan'), tomato porkchop (番茄豬扒飯 'faan ke chü paa faan'), fermented black bean sauce spare ribs 豆豉排骨 ('dau si pai gwat'), baked fish (焗魚 'guk yü'), Portuguese chicken rice (焗葡國雞飯 'guk pou gwok gai faan'), steamed pork patty with salt fish (鹹魚蒸肉餅 'haam yü jing yiuk beng'), salt fish chicken fried rice (鹹魚雞粒炒飯 'haam yü gai naap chaau faan'), pork and vegetable buns ( 菜肉飽 'choi yuk baau'), congee (粥 'juk'), and wonton noodle soup (雲吞湯麵 'wan tan tong min'), which is perfect for a rainy day.
Neither my doctor nor the turkey buzzard hold with such things, alas.
I have not found the piggy buns (猪仔包 'chü chai baau') yet.
But I'm still discovering good things to eat.
Always keep looking.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, December 13, 2019
GAYS IN SPACE!
Louie Gomert staunchly defended Donald Trump yesterday. Louie Gomert is the Christian representative who in 2016 argued passionately in Congress against sending homosexuals into space. Because, in his Texan Christian unhinged mind, it would be a disaster and signal the end of mankind.
"Okay, we've got a spaceship that can go as Matt Damon did in the movie, plant a colony somewhere. We can have humans survive this terrible disaster about to befall. If you can decide what 40 people you put on the spacecraft that would save humanity, how many of those would be same-sex couples?"
If Louie Gomert argues on your behalf, your cause is pretty messed up.
Louie Gomert is many things. Rational isn't one of them.
But Louie Gomert stands by his man.
He's from Texas.
Anyway, enough of Washington and the armpits of Texas, here in the rainy heart of Northern California it was a day of normalcy and sensible behaviour, over all, when other than the lengthy visitations of Little White Nipple Guy and the Reindeer Repair Man, nothing surprised me. As Little white Nipple Guy held forth eloquently on his favourite subject (Dunhill lighters), to the staggerment of a rational person who was subjected to his tirade, this blogger disappeared in the direction of the Garcia y Garcia products, from whence I tried not to emerge until Elvis had left the building.
CHATTERSOME AMBUSH
Though I get along well with people, and can engage in pleasant discussion with nearly anybody when required, I am hard pressed when Little White Nipple Guy, the Reindeer Repair Man, and Tin Foil Hat Stevie visit.
Fortunately they can maintain conversations entirely without input from anybody else, and the Garcia y Garcia section needed attention.
The staggered rational person eventually broke free of the locutionary embrace to which he had been subjected, and enjoyed the rest of his smoke in calmer quieter circumstance.
I fondly imagine Louie Gomert's district as being filled with people like Little White Nipple Guy, Reindeer Repair Man, and Tin Foil Hat Stevie. But all of them speaking like The Investment Banker, who has a Tennessee twang, and won't shut up either.
Don't need to visit the rest of the country; got more than plenty of their representatives right here, and I ain't nearly that social.
I'll just hide near Garcia y Garcia.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"Okay, we've got a spaceship that can go as Matt Damon did in the movie, plant a colony somewhere. We can have humans survive this terrible disaster about to befall. If you can decide what 40 people you put on the spacecraft that would save humanity, how many of those would be same-sex couples?"
If Louie Gomert argues on your behalf, your cause is pretty messed up.
Louie Gomert is many things. Rational isn't one of them.
But Louie Gomert stands by his man.
He's from Texas.
Anyway, enough of Washington and the armpits of Texas, here in the rainy heart of Northern California it was a day of normalcy and sensible behaviour, over all, when other than the lengthy visitations of Little White Nipple Guy and the Reindeer Repair Man, nothing surprised me. As Little white Nipple Guy held forth eloquently on his favourite subject (Dunhill lighters), to the staggerment of a rational person who was subjected to his tirade, this blogger disappeared in the direction of the Garcia y Garcia products, from whence I tried not to emerge until Elvis had left the building.
CHATTERSOME AMBUSH
Though I get along well with people, and can engage in pleasant discussion with nearly anybody when required, I am hard pressed when Little White Nipple Guy, the Reindeer Repair Man, and Tin Foil Hat Stevie visit.
Fortunately they can maintain conversations entirely without input from anybody else, and the Garcia y Garcia section needed attention.
The staggered rational person eventually broke free of the locutionary embrace to which he had been subjected, and enjoyed the rest of his smoke in calmer quieter circumstance.
I fondly imagine Louie Gomert's district as being filled with people like Little White Nipple Guy, Reindeer Repair Man, and Tin Foil Hat Stevie. But all of them speaking like The Investment Banker, who has a Tennessee twang, and won't shut up either.
Don't need to visit the rest of the country; got more than plenty of their representatives right here, and I ain't nearly that social.
I'll just hide near Garcia y Garcia.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, December 12, 2019
TALK THIS WAY!
Sometimes I totally take for granted that most people understand Dutch, German, and Yiddish. Perhaps this is wrong. In a previous essay there was a lot of 'Foreignese', for which I sort of apologize, but really, y'all should learn some other languages than just English, Scottish, and Bro.
For my convenience, boys.
That way, when Herr Inspektor Kemp mentions the good doctor regrettably following in his gren'fadder's vut-shtapps, you von't be so beffled.
Worst comes to worst, you can use a dictionary.
Wörterbuch.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
For my convenience, boys.
That way, when Herr Inspektor Kemp mentions the good doctor regrettably following in his gren'fadder's vut-shtapps, you von't be so beffled.
Worst comes to worst, you can use a dictionary.
Wörterbuch.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, December 11, 2019
HOT FEATHERED LATIN
There's a buzzard staring over a computer at me. He's named Sydney Filbert, and he wishes to know if there is any fresh carrion in this household. Or anything that attracts flies, really.
He's peckish, and curious about dinner.
He is a new resident of the household, really very handsome.
An early birthday present for my apartment mate.
Who channels for stuffed creatures.
Surely we won't let him go hungry?
I've already mentioned the cookies and the apple-caramel pie, but, seeing as these do not normally contain rotting meat, he has made it clear that they will not do. How about a dead cow?
Buzzards, also known as Turkey Vultures, do not have beaks that are strong enough to go through the hide of most largish cadavers as commonly occur in the suburban areas surrounding San Francisco, where the streets are sometimes littered with roadkill. Socccer moms, bovines, lost joggers, and warthogs. So someone normally has to make the first incision or puncture in the skin, a task often left to larger beaked creatures such as condors. We have no condors in the Bay Area as far as I know, so I guess I'll have to ask the butcher to hack into the skin a few times before I bring any dead farm animals home. Or an elephant seal.
Unless Sydney develops a taste for hot toast and marmalade. And Italian sausages or little meatballs.
Maybe a chihuahua from the pound occasionally.
He is clean and soft, and concerned with hygiene.
He asked "donde está el baño" right away.
He'll probably fit right in.
ATERWORD as of 8:22 PM
Sydney Filbert throughly enjoyed the grilled Italian sausages with blue-cheese mustard from Trader Joe's and toasty sourdough. He dined fabulously well, chomp chomp chomp. So we may be cool.
He didn't say anything about the hot sauce.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
He's peckish, and curious about dinner.
He is a new resident of the household, really very handsome.
An early birthday present for my apartment mate.
Who channels for stuffed creatures.
Surely we won't let him go hungry?
I've already mentioned the cookies and the apple-caramel pie, but, seeing as these do not normally contain rotting meat, he has made it clear that they will not do. How about a dead cow?
Buzzards, also known as Turkey Vultures, do not have beaks that are strong enough to go through the hide of most largish cadavers as commonly occur in the suburban areas surrounding San Francisco, where the streets are sometimes littered with roadkill. Socccer moms, bovines, lost joggers, and warthogs. So someone normally has to make the first incision or puncture in the skin, a task often left to larger beaked creatures such as condors. We have no condors in the Bay Area as far as I know, so I guess I'll have to ask the butcher to hack into the skin a few times before I bring any dead farm animals home. Or an elephant seal.
Unless Sydney develops a taste for hot toast and marmalade. And Italian sausages or little meatballs.
Maybe a chihuahua from the pound occasionally.
He is clean and soft, and concerned with hygiene.
He asked "donde está el baño" right away.
He'll probably fit right in.
ATERWORD as of 8:22 PM
Sydney Filbert throughly enjoyed the grilled Italian sausages with blue-cheese mustard from Trader Joe's and toasty sourdough. He dined fabulously well, chomp chomp chomp. So we may be cool.
He didn't say anything about the hot sauce.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
JUST PUT THE CLEANEST ONE BY THE DOOR, THE SMALL GUY AGAINST THE CLOCK!
Last night I told a person who was tweaking on meth "wir können hier nicht anhalten, das is fledermaus land" (we cannot stop here, this is bat country). Another man tried to offer me a Bic lighter (white) for no reason at all (I was already lit), so I showed him mine (blue). And a third, an hour earlier, borrowed three dollars for food and also got a cigarillo.
Just another jaunt in North Beach.
It ended at a karaoke bar where no one got up and sang. The Canto pop stars on screen did their thing to no appreciation whatsoever, so from one point of view it was a lovely evening.
Wine. Women. Song.
The wine I know from years ago is good for what ails you, and kills the boojums. My friend grimaced when he took his first sip, while I enjoyed my delicious carbonated beverage. I have not drunk that wine in years.
The women were restrained and civilized. One brought me a glass of tea, another gave me roasted peanuts.
The song was horrendous screeching on the playlist at one place, Canto pop at another.
So except for the meth head rearranging the coloured garbage bins to form a pentagram in the alleyway and mumbling in what may have been Klingon, a calm and restrained Tuesday perambule to familiar places, interrupted briefly by my quoting Johnny Depp as the good doctor in German.
See, I have this little briar cigarillo holder .....
And I first saw the movie auf Deutsch.
Sometimes in Chinatown and North Beach German seems like it's the most important language in the world, you're surrounded by people speaking only that. Which for me is no problem, because German is like a goofy version of Dutch, and I can usually understand it, but for the local shopkeepers it does present a bit of a problem.
Useful phrases that all Cantonese Shopkeepers should learn:
Enthält das Gluten? Will this kill an idiot?
Meine frau ist bemerkenswertig! Sie hat nicht eine, nicht zwei, sondern drei brüste! It's okay to stare, we all do.
Wie schön! Das erinnert mich so sehr an Polen. This is grim and depressing, I like it.
Ja, wir brauchen sieben menschen um ein blick Cola zu kaufen. Macht es dir etwas aus? All of us are cheapskates.
In meinem dorf machen wir die dinge anders; wir singen. Things are so much better in Europe.
Imagine Werner Herzog and Frau Blucher having a conversation.
"Oh kijk! Het is de kanselier!"
"Wat? Prins von Bulow? Hier?"
"Ja!"
"Hij komt hier?"
"Nee, hij IS hier."
Oh, dan moet ik mijn oude uniform gaan aandoen."
"Hij zal het niet merken, Helmut. Hij is dood."
"Dood? Hier?"
"Ja. In onze zitkamer."
"Dit is onze zitkamer, schat."
"Nou, je weet wat ik bedoel."
"De woonkamer!"
"Ja ... maar het is een soort zitkamer."
"Nou kijk toch!"
"Welke is Von Bulow?"
"Oh, ja ... en admiraal Tirpitz!"
"En Von Muller ... en mijnheer Reichner... en Hollweg en Von Graunberg..."
"Dat is niet von Graunberg, deze is von Graunberg ... dat is Moltke ... "
"Hij is veel ouder dan ik dacht."
"Hij is een slimme man, ja."
"En Zimmermann ... en Kimpte ... "
"Wat zullen we doen, Helmut?"
"We moeten de regering bellen."
"Dit IS de regering, Helmut."
"Oh jee."
"Het is een grote eer om zoveel leden van de regering dood in onze zitkamer te hebben."
"Woonkamer."
"Ja, nou ... "
"Er zijn geen leden van de regering dood in onze woonkamer."
"Ja, je weet wat ik bedoel."
"Misschien moet ik een beetje spietsjen of zo?"
"Geen spietsj, Helmut, nee ... "
"Zullen we een kop thee voor ze maken?"
"Het zou verspilling van thee zijn."
"Maar we moeten wel iets doen, zoveel belangrijke mensen in onze salon, toch?"
"We kunnen ze een beetje organizeren."
"En een lijstje maken."
"Ja, ja. We zouden de ministers voor binnenlandse zaken tegen de muur kunnen zetten, en die voor buitenlands hier tegen de klok."
"En zouden we ze alfabetisch sorteren?"
"Nee, nee - leg de schoonste bij de deur."
"Ja."
"Nee! Dat is Von Bulow! Hij moet hier gaan."
"Dat is mijn leesstoel!"
"Hij is de rijkskanselier van Duitsland, Helmut."
"Oké ... maar ik denk dat hij beter tegen de klok was geweest, weet je."
"Nee, hij zou er niet mooi uitzien onder de klok."
"Ik zei niet onder de klok. Ik zei tegen de klok."
"Welnu, dan zouden we de klok niet kunnen zien!"
"We zouden de minister van Koloniën onder de klok kunnen zetten. Hij is erg klein."
"Nee. Koloniën zijn interne aangelegenheden. Hij moet tegen de muur gaan."
"Weldra kunnen we een lijstje maken."
"Ja, wacht even! ... Wie is dat bij de kattenbak?"
"Ik weet het niet. Ik heb hem nog nooit eerder gezien."
"Hij is geen lid van de regering. Haal hem hier weg. Zet hem in de woonkamer."
"Hij is in de woonkamer, mijn liefste."
"Ja, nou je weet wat ik bedoel."
"Zet hem in de zitkamer."
"Ja, in de zitkamer, het is allemaal hetzelfde."
They are discussing politics. All Europeans talk about politics. They lost at it several times, and they're still trying to get it right.
Yes, I smoked a pipe while waiting for the bookseller.
Cigarillos are just quickies while walking.
From A to B to C.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Just another jaunt in North Beach.
It ended at a karaoke bar where no one got up and sang. The Canto pop stars on screen did their thing to no appreciation whatsoever, so from one point of view it was a lovely evening.
Wine. Women. Song.
The wine I know from years ago is good for what ails you, and kills the boojums. My friend grimaced when he took his first sip, while I enjoyed my delicious carbonated beverage. I have not drunk that wine in years.
The women were restrained and civilized. One brought me a glass of tea, another gave me roasted peanuts.
The song was horrendous screeching on the playlist at one place, Canto pop at another.
So except for the meth head rearranging the coloured garbage bins to form a pentagram in the alleyway and mumbling in what may have been Klingon, a calm and restrained Tuesday perambule to familiar places, interrupted briefly by my quoting Johnny Depp as the good doctor in German.
See, I have this little briar cigarillo holder .....
And I first saw the movie auf Deutsch.
Sometimes in Chinatown and North Beach German seems like it's the most important language in the world, you're surrounded by people speaking only that. Which for me is no problem, because German is like a goofy version of Dutch, and I can usually understand it, but for the local shopkeepers it does present a bit of a problem.
Useful phrases that all Cantonese Shopkeepers should learn:
Enthält das Gluten? Will this kill an idiot?
Meine frau ist bemerkenswertig! Sie hat nicht eine, nicht zwei, sondern drei brüste! It's okay to stare, we all do.
Wie schön! Das erinnert mich so sehr an Polen. This is grim and depressing, I like it.
Ja, wir brauchen sieben menschen um ein blick Cola zu kaufen. Macht es dir etwas aus? All of us are cheapskates.
In meinem dorf machen wir die dinge anders; wir singen. Things are so much better in Europe.
Imagine Werner Herzog and Frau Blucher having a conversation.
"Oh kijk! Het is de kanselier!"
"Wat? Prins von Bulow? Hier?"
"Ja!"
"Hij komt hier?"
"Nee, hij IS hier."
Oh, dan moet ik mijn oude uniform gaan aandoen."
"Hij zal het niet merken, Helmut. Hij is dood."
"Dood? Hier?"
"Ja. In onze zitkamer."
"Dit is onze zitkamer, schat."
"Nou, je weet wat ik bedoel."
"De woonkamer!"
"Ja ... maar het is een soort zitkamer."
"Nou kijk toch!"
"Welke is Von Bulow?"
"Oh, ja ... en admiraal Tirpitz!"
"En Von Muller ... en mijnheer Reichner... en Hollweg en Von Graunberg..."
"Dat is niet von Graunberg, deze is von Graunberg ... dat is Moltke ... "
"Hij is veel ouder dan ik dacht."
"Hij is een slimme man, ja."
"En Zimmermann ... en Kimpte ... "
"Wat zullen we doen, Helmut?"
"We moeten de regering bellen."
"Dit IS de regering, Helmut."
"Oh jee."
"Het is een grote eer om zoveel leden van de regering dood in onze zitkamer te hebben."
"Woonkamer."
"Ja, nou ... "
"Er zijn geen leden van de regering dood in onze woonkamer."
"Ja, je weet wat ik bedoel."
"Misschien moet ik een beetje spietsjen of zo?"
"Geen spietsj, Helmut, nee ... "
"Zullen we een kop thee voor ze maken?"
"Het zou verspilling van thee zijn."
"Maar we moeten wel iets doen, zoveel belangrijke mensen in onze salon, toch?"
"We kunnen ze een beetje organizeren."
"En een lijstje maken."
"Ja, ja. We zouden de ministers voor binnenlandse zaken tegen de muur kunnen zetten, en die voor buitenlands hier tegen de klok."
"En zouden we ze alfabetisch sorteren?"
"Nee, nee - leg de schoonste bij de deur."
"Ja."
"Nee! Dat is Von Bulow! Hij moet hier gaan."
"Dat is mijn leesstoel!"
"Hij is de rijkskanselier van Duitsland, Helmut."
"Oké ... maar ik denk dat hij beter tegen de klok was geweest, weet je."
"Nee, hij zou er niet mooi uitzien onder de klok."
"Ik zei niet onder de klok. Ik zei tegen de klok."
"Welnu, dan zouden we de klok niet kunnen zien!"
"We zouden de minister van Koloniën onder de klok kunnen zetten. Hij is erg klein."
"Nee. Koloniën zijn interne aangelegenheden. Hij moet tegen de muur gaan."
"Weldra kunnen we een lijstje maken."
"Ja, wacht even! ... Wie is dat bij de kattenbak?"
"Ik weet het niet. Ik heb hem nog nooit eerder gezien."
"Hij is geen lid van de regering. Haal hem hier weg. Zet hem in de woonkamer."
"Hij is in de woonkamer, mijn liefste."
"Ja, nou je weet wat ik bedoel."
"Zet hem in de zitkamer."
"Ja, in de zitkamer, het is allemaal hetzelfde."
They are discussing politics. All Europeans talk about politics. They lost at it several times, and they're still trying to get it right.
Yes, I smoked a pipe while waiting for the bookseller.
Cigarillos are just quickies while walking.
From A to B to C.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
HI THIS IS MIKE, YOUR COMPUTER TECHNICIAN
"And how are you doing today?" Well, you called just as this man was putting on his socks, while relishing the warm mentholated feeling the foot powder was giving to his toes. Oh baby! And by the way, Mike, I do not have a computer technician, and do not subscribe to any such services.
So I think you're simply a computer criminal South Indian from somewhere near Hyderabad or Bangalore trying to make some extra money this festive season by ripping off easily confused first-worlders.
Does your mother know what you're doing?
How you can afford to buy that sari?
Or do you intend to wear it yourself?
You will look so festive!
Don't forget the handbag, Michael, a good accessory completes an outfit.
But stash your bidis in the bustier. Next to the flask of Royal Challenge.
Louis Vuitton makes some nice bags. Or, if you really screw a few elderly first-worlders good this time, a Birkin Bag (by Hermes). Some examples cost up to three hundred thousand dollars (21 million rupees)!
A more stylish carrying bag for paan and requisites cannot be imagined.
Also functions well as a tiffin container.
Michael hung up on me.
Damned quitter.
My own fault for trying to give fashion advice to Indians.
Restrained good taste just ain't their bag.
I love Desis.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
So I think you're simply a computer criminal South Indian from somewhere near Hyderabad or Bangalore trying to make some extra money this festive season by ripping off easily confused first-worlders.
Does your mother know what you're doing?
How you can afford to buy that sari?
Or do you intend to wear it yourself?
You will look so festive!
Don't forget the handbag, Michael, a good accessory completes an outfit.
But stash your bidis in the bustier. Next to the flask of Royal Challenge.
Louis Vuitton makes some nice bags. Or, if you really screw a few elderly first-worlders good this time, a Birkin Bag (by Hermes). Some examples cost up to three hundred thousand dollars (21 million rupees)!
A more stylish carrying bag for paan and requisites cannot be imagined.
Also functions well as a tiffin container.
Michael hung up on me.
Damned quitter.
My own fault for trying to give fashion advice to Indians.
Restrained good taste just ain't their bag.
I love Desis.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 10, 2019
HIGHLY FUNCTIONAL LOON
When I got to the bakery it had started to rain. Apparently I am highly perspicacious and foresightful for having carried an umbrella with me, but in truth I left the house late, could see the sky already lowering, and even the slightest precipitation can dismay, torment, and hamper a pipe smoker.
So nothing, really. No prescience involved. Just caution.
One of the women who works there is someone whom I've know for years, since when she was working at a different business up the street. After that changed hands she worked for a while where I sometimes get a bowl of jook (with a yau tiu), now she's landed firmly on her feet at a good place.
But I know everyone there anyway. I'm sort of the resident eccentric old kwailo who speaks Cantonese relatively decently, and I doubt that there are more than a handful of us in the city.
Oh and I tip reasonably well. One should always tip in a way that says one wants to be welcomed back, rather than perfunctorily and penuriously.
It's a question of both one's own self respect as well as face.
What no one who works there needs to know is that Kwailo Uncle is not a successful man as they would count it, meaning that he does not have family in the immediate area, is not married and never had children, and insofar as he has any significant other(s), has an erstwhile girlfriend who is still a very good friend, and a totally imaginary girlfriend who he seldom ever mentions, because she does not exist.
It was coming down steadily when I left the bakery after tea and lit up my pipe. My imaginary girlfriend, who is considerably younger than me, probably rushed out of the house on her way to work this morning, and consequently got quite soaked by this evening's rain. And had to take a hot shower when she got home just to warm up. I am imagining goose bumps.
I hope the central heating works in her apartment.
I am imagining soft flannel jammies too.
My imaginary girlfriend also has stuffed animals with which to cuddle for comfort when it's cold outside, because every nice person needs stuffed animals. This is important.
At this moment she smells delicately of soap. I myself smell delicately of some very good Virginia tobacco right now, having done a full bowl while sheltering under awnings in Chinatown and on Polk Street, sort of a classic fragrance, which is very proper given that the pipe I was smoking was made nearly a decade before I was born, and suited to old-fashioned leaf.
My stuffed animals say that I stink a bit. As they cannot wait to tell my imaginary girlfriend when they finally meet her.
I am not at all sure how my imaginary girlfriend feels about smoking.
I haven't gotten that far yet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
So nothing, really. No prescience involved. Just caution.
One of the women who works there is someone whom I've know for years, since when she was working at a different business up the street. After that changed hands she worked for a while where I sometimes get a bowl of jook (with a yau tiu), now she's landed firmly on her feet at a good place.
But I know everyone there anyway. I'm sort of the resident eccentric old kwailo who speaks Cantonese relatively decently, and I doubt that there are more than a handful of us in the city.
Oh and I tip reasonably well. One should always tip in a way that says one wants to be welcomed back, rather than perfunctorily and penuriously.
It's a question of both one's own self respect as well as face.
What no one who works there needs to know is that Kwailo Uncle is not a successful man as they would count it, meaning that he does not have family in the immediate area, is not married and never had children, and insofar as he has any significant other(s), has an erstwhile girlfriend who is still a very good friend, and a totally imaginary girlfriend who he seldom ever mentions, because she does not exist.
It was coming down steadily when I left the bakery after tea and lit up my pipe. My imaginary girlfriend, who is considerably younger than me, probably rushed out of the house on her way to work this morning, and consequently got quite soaked by this evening's rain. And had to take a hot shower when she got home just to warm up. I am imagining goose bumps.
I hope the central heating works in her apartment.
I am imagining soft flannel jammies too.
My imaginary girlfriend also has stuffed animals with which to cuddle for comfort when it's cold outside, because every nice person needs stuffed animals. This is important.
At this moment she smells delicately of soap. I myself smell delicately of some very good Virginia tobacco right now, having done a full bowl while sheltering under awnings in Chinatown and on Polk Street, sort of a classic fragrance, which is very proper given that the pipe I was smoking was made nearly a decade before I was born, and suited to old-fashioned leaf.
My stuffed animals say that I stink a bit. As they cannot wait to tell my imaginary girlfriend when they finally meet her.
I am not at all sure how my imaginary girlfriend feels about smoking.
I haven't gotten that far yet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT
At work we have a lot of Christmas themed decoration, as usual. During the time when I worked in the toy industry, that was also unavoidable. Seeing as Christmas is the time of year when desperate grandparents buy their children's offspring lots of stuff in hopes that the little shits will, for once, write thank-you notes. Which they probably won't, because the only time when they even think of grandma is when she flies out from her retirement community in Florida right around mid-winter.
At her own expense, nota bene!
But they love the x-box and the drone!
As the person most likely to be voted "oddball uncle we never associate with", this blogger is not fully vested in the joy of the season. Doing "credit and collections" at a toy company a few years ago dis-vested me even further from the holidays than my own natural inclinations would have.
And, as a pipe-smoker, there is even less to vest me.
Smokers of cigars and pipes are heading into a dark period of one to several weeks when they will be all alone near the compost heap at the end of the garden far more often than usual, as their happy kinfolk demand that they not trigger the cousin from California or Massachusetts and her badly behaved brats with their foul habits. Runty no-neck monsters.
Even here in the Bay Area, relatives and other visitors will send Uncle Fester out into the driving rain and sleet, often with nary a thank you, to catch his death of cold by the rotting garbage.
Not realizing that both pipe and cigar smoking have become the perfect way to ensure privacy and quiet, especially if you have a thick overcoat, gloves, and a sturdy umbrella.
Ah, finally away from those people!
And all that horrid tinsel!
The awful music.
Because Christmas is, after all, all about repressed sexual urges, bad sugary treats, cheap chocolate, cheese in a can, the relatives you don't actually want to socialize with, puritanism, suffering, despair, exile, a lack of bearskin rugs on which to lie naked by the fire, deepfried turkey, over-eating, influenza, Players Navy Cut cigarettes from Canada, crappy movies, and dead wild animals stuffed and mounted in nightmarish tableaux vivants.
Oh giddy joy!
I really must stress the repressed sexual urges, cheese in a can, crappy movies, and nightmarish tableaux!
Humbug!
Oh, and a talking fish hat which I hid before she could force me to wear it. She was only five years old at the time, about a dozen years ago, but she still hasn't found where I hid it. All the other victims didn't move fast enough, and catered happily to the whims of the little girl, but I refused. Instead, for part of the evening I went outside for a cigarillo, and observed them all from the garden, near the row of tomato plants, then snuck in and yanked the hat off the table and "disappeared" it while everyone was distracted.
And I still feel good about that.
The damned talking fish is probably still on top of the ceramic punch bowl in the sun room. She may have forgotten about it by now. I haven't.
All my living relatives are in Canada or on the East Coast. I shan't be flying out for the Holiday. Other than having some cioppino with old friends, I have no intention of celebrating. Jesus wasn't born on Christmas (as you jolly well know), neither was Santa, or Sam the Angry Maccabee and his legion of murderous intolerant xenophobic bastards.
Instead, on Christmas day, I shall most likely be enjoying solitude, the end of mass-insanity, non-Christmas related food stuffs, a hot beverage or two, a couple of bowls of excellent pipe tobacco while my fingers turn blue, and a nice bit of gloom while in a funk. As suits bachelors and eccentric kinfolk with matches whom you cannot trust around flammable decorations.
Alas, there is no fermenting compost heap anywhere nearby.
But I do have a thick overcoat and an umbrella.
So I'll be quite alright.
Glowering.
THE ODDBALL UNCLE WE NEVER ASSOCIATE WITH
Minor detail: a very real concern for that day is the weather, and where will I find something decent to eat on Christmas, as my apartment mate will be off and spending a large part of it at home. She doesn't like my smoking around her, and the few hours when she's over at one her relatives house for the family Christmas dinner with her siblings won't be enough time for me to smoke my pipe and let the apartment air out before she returns. Aside from which, I intend to be fast asleep in my own room when she gets back.
She can tell me all about it when I get home from work.
Second Christmas day I'll be "at the office".
The cigar smokers compost heap.
Three layers of socks.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
At her own expense, nota bene!
But they love the x-box and the drone!
As the person most likely to be voted "oddball uncle we never associate with", this blogger is not fully vested in the joy of the season. Doing "credit and collections" at a toy company a few years ago dis-vested me even further from the holidays than my own natural inclinations would have.
And, as a pipe-smoker, there is even less to vest me.
Smokers of cigars and pipes are heading into a dark period of one to several weeks when they will be all alone near the compost heap at the end of the garden far more often than usual, as their happy kinfolk demand that they not trigger the cousin from California or Massachusetts and her badly behaved brats with their foul habits. Runty no-neck monsters.
Even here in the Bay Area, relatives and other visitors will send Uncle Fester out into the driving rain and sleet, often with nary a thank you, to catch his death of cold by the rotting garbage.
Not realizing that both pipe and cigar smoking have become the perfect way to ensure privacy and quiet, especially if you have a thick overcoat, gloves, and a sturdy umbrella.
Ah, finally away from those people!
And all that horrid tinsel!
The awful music.
Because Christmas is, after all, all about repressed sexual urges, bad sugary treats, cheap chocolate, cheese in a can, the relatives you don't actually want to socialize with, puritanism, suffering, despair, exile, a lack of bearskin rugs on which to lie naked by the fire, deepfried turkey, over-eating, influenza, Players Navy Cut cigarettes from Canada, crappy movies, and dead wild animals stuffed and mounted in nightmarish tableaux vivants.
Oh giddy joy!
I really must stress the repressed sexual urges, cheese in a can, crappy movies, and nightmarish tableaux!
Humbug!
Oh, and a talking fish hat which I hid before she could force me to wear it. She was only five years old at the time, about a dozen years ago, but she still hasn't found where I hid it. All the other victims didn't move fast enough, and catered happily to the whims of the little girl, but I refused. Instead, for part of the evening I went outside for a cigarillo, and observed them all from the garden, near the row of tomato plants, then snuck in and yanked the hat off the table and "disappeared" it while everyone was distracted.
And I still feel good about that.
The damned talking fish is probably still on top of the ceramic punch bowl in the sun room. She may have forgotten about it by now. I haven't.
All my living relatives are in Canada or on the East Coast. I shan't be flying out for the Holiday. Other than having some cioppino with old friends, I have no intention of celebrating. Jesus wasn't born on Christmas (as you jolly well know), neither was Santa, or Sam the Angry Maccabee and his legion of murderous intolerant xenophobic bastards.
Instead, on Christmas day, I shall most likely be enjoying solitude, the end of mass-insanity, non-Christmas related food stuffs, a hot beverage or two, a couple of bowls of excellent pipe tobacco while my fingers turn blue, and a nice bit of gloom while in a funk. As suits bachelors and eccentric kinfolk with matches whom you cannot trust around flammable decorations.
Alas, there is no fermenting compost heap anywhere nearby.
But I do have a thick overcoat and an umbrella.
So I'll be quite alright.
Glowering.
THE ODDBALL UNCLE WE NEVER ASSOCIATE WITH
Minor detail: a very real concern for that day is the weather, and where will I find something decent to eat on Christmas, as my apartment mate will be off and spending a large part of it at home. She doesn't like my smoking around her, and the few hours when she's over at one her relatives house for the family Christmas dinner with her siblings won't be enough time for me to smoke my pipe and let the apartment air out before she returns. Aside from which, I intend to be fast asleep in my own room when she gets back.
She can tell me all about it when I get home from work.
Second Christmas day I'll be "at the office".
The cigar smokers compost heap.
Three layers of socks.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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HELLO, ALICE!
It was a long day. Part of which was dealing with a fellow pipesmoker who wished to see a selection of briars, starting off with over a doze...
