LET'S NOT TALK ABOUT IT

My apartment mate sometimes indulges in strange fascinations. For a while she was obsessively watching earwax videos, after which it was pimples and eruptive lesions or something. Recently after a long speculative discourse on earwax and sebum, she asked whether the minor cyst on my upper back which she knows about from several years ago needed squeezing. Had it grown large enough again that it itched? When I told her that no that wasn't necessary, I had already dealt with it recently, she scoffed. Surely I couldn't reach it! Well, I can. I am more flexible than you think. Hmmph, my squeezing wasn't as good as hers anyway! After many years it isn't as "generous", sorry.

For some people sebaceous cysts are a pain in the ass.
For her, they're "entertainment".

Must be something deep-rooted in her childhood. Which leads me to believe that growing up Chinatown must be in some ways unique and educational. Sensitive white people would be traumatized, the dears. Hardier stock takes things in stride, and relishes the colourful and complicated facets. I've seen, in movies, younger persons pummeling the backs of elderly grannies and uncles to relieve their rheumatism, and in the old days minor therapeutic stuff often needed performing at home, if old Chinese tales are to be believed. Plus there's moxibustion (艾灸), cupping (拔罐), and stew pots with tonic herbs.
And, in a few rare cases, medicinal frogs for soup.
Or a black goat leg in the freezer.


Things were "odd" in the olden days. My own mother, of solid Calvinist ancestry, so spotless European heritage, firmly believed that there was absolutely NO nutritional value to sausage, mushrooms, chilipeppers, and anything cooked by the Dutch. We lived in Holland for several years after moving there when I was two, and she didn't trust the local notions about food. Despite her own father being a doctor, some of her ideas were, um, off.

Some swamps don't need draining.
Exorcism, perhaps.
驅魔。



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JUICY OLD COOT

Nothing quite gets the juices flowinging like having blood drawn. If the other options for early morning juiciness (coffee, perhaps a bit to eat, or just coffee dammit) are off the table. It was necessary to stumble over to the blood drawing place in early morning because I had failed a test. One cannot cram for such a test. But apparently one should remember that vitamin pills may skew results.

So no coffee, no breakfast (as other people understand it, which apparently is bacon and greasy fried potato substances OR left-over pizza), and NO vitamin pills.

Bleary eyed. Drank some water. Brushed teeth. Shaved and showered, applied the underarm deodorant and the foot powder. Clean clothes, bad attitude, bus across the hill.

[I believe that it is important to show respect for the occasion and people involved by being as presentable as possible. So no scruffiness. This also improves one's own attitude and outlook.]


The desk person at the 抽血室 ('chau huet sat') was business-like and entirely Mandarin speaking. Probably overqualified, but with fluency in only one language not yet at the level where she can actually exercise her specialty. What was my business there? Chau huet. Had I eaten. No. Had I drunk anything? No. Well okay then. I keenly appreciate that SF Chinese Hospital does not hire flibberty-gibbets, but has fully capable staff who can function in what must, at times, be a surreal environment.

When I had my ruptured appendix dealt with there I encountered native speakers of several regional languages in the Sinitic family, including Hainanese, Hakka, Toisaan, and Min, who were also capable of expressing themselves in standard Cantonese or Mandarin. As well as English. Most of them were overqualified for what they were doing, and consequently had depth and perspective. This is actually very important when the patient in question is in pain and gibbering in Dutch. As I may have been at the time. When my right leg was in agony at work a while back (arthritis meets arterosclerosis meets oedema from blood pressure meds by late afternoon) I expressed myself in Dutch. One old pussbag is probably still wondering what "verrekte ouwe klooiak" means. Literally: strained or ripped old scrotum. The figurative meaning is something else.

[There are times when the right leg is an entire smorgasbord of different pain sensations. It's quite educational and exciting. Perhaps I should have gotten the extended warranty I was called about so often.]

Blood test results (almost) ALWAYS show that the bad-tempered old dingus has blood but no caffeine. Sometimes they also say other things, like: avoids silver and mirrors, howls at the full moon, remembers past lives as a high priest having a torrid affair with Anck-su-namun in Thebes, or was a twenty thousand year old Inca princess .....

[Anck-su-namun was not my idea of torrid affair material, but, you know, some people ..... ]


Got coffee immediately aftwards, then lit my pipe and enjoyed the life-giving elixir.

Presently finishing my second cup of coffee at home. I shan't say that getting blood drawn was absolutely the best way to start my weekend, but I enjoyed popping down to the hospital as well as the peaceful smoke afterwards sitting on a bench at Broadway and Stockton. Sunlight, the passing throngs, interesting things, caffeine.


They'll call me if they need more blood.



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PUTTING MY EFFERVESCENCE TO THE TEST

One of my favourite movie quotes is "wir können hier nicht anhalten, das is fledermaus land". During tourist season it's always begging to be let out. It would make the Amerikanisches abenteuer of European tourists at the Bridge a little more surreal. Quite possibly the three plump-thighed damsels waiting at the last bus stop in Marin had already come to that exact conclusion. Or something similar. Don't wear shorts in the fog zone, ladies, it's cold here.

The northern approaches were probably fog-bound all day. As were other parts of Southern Marin. Autumnal. Which means that elsewhere it must have been insufferably hot.

Ideally, after being out all day when the weather is like this, one would come home to a nice hearty dinner. Yorkshire pud, spare ribs in black bean sauce, guleh ayam, and baby potatoes roasted with garlic and dill. With some nice sambal, and perhaps a soup.
Followed by a big wedge of cheesecake.

Which, given that I have to go in for another blood-draw tomorrow, is out of the question entirely. Apparently I failed a recent test, which was probably my own fault, as I dutifully fasted a full twelve hours before, abstained from any nutrition or caffeine, and stumbled in with growling stomach (exaggeration, as I don't get hungry till early afternoon). But, out of automatic habit, I had popped my vitamin pills that morning.

Tomorrow's blood will be to test my vitamin B levels. Folic acid (B12) was a bit off.


I'm looking forward to it while NOT looking forward to it. No coffee. No dinner tonight. Thank goodness they didn't say anything about smoking. Because a man NEEDS his dose of red Virginia with a touch of Perique when staring out over the bleak and forbidding wastelands where somewhere in the fog wild Euries wearing short shorts because after all it's "sunny" California take potshots at one, knowing that without a fortifying first cup of coffee and the vitamins that give one super survival skills one is slow and not particularly alert or on one's guard. With red red eyes I shall stagger into the lab at an ungodly hour (they open at 7:30) to subject my deprived caffeine and vitamin pill free arm to a needle. I shall fight off the hordes of European explorers who are keen to scalp a native.

Darn improperly garbed trophy hunting expedition.

I know there is coffee within less than a block from the lab. And an outdoors place to sit down. With a pipe.



There MUST be a hotdog stand or burger place not too far from Chinese Hospital. A man might need some sustenance afterwards. Something simple and unhealthy that benefits from globs of hot sauce.

Why do the tourists look like smiling hyenas?


I will bubble over with warmth and kindness.



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LOVELY SOOKER CAKES!

Well, they are lovely little puff cakes filled with vanilla cream from Japan -- may cause cancer and reproductive harm according to the State of California oh boo hoo -- but this post is NOT about the "sucre cakes". Not exactly. And I should mention that a nearby medical facility has the same warning posted outside, which also shows up on the tins of pipe tobacco behind me. So ladies, do not reproduce with me. I ate the cakes, smoked the tobacco, was treated in the medical facility. At this point I probably cause cancer and reproductive harm.
Besides smelling bad with a faint hint of vanilla.

Lovely puff cakes. Dinner. Because reasons.

When I came home from work it was to hear all about buying a "monument" in Chinatown.
My apartment mate's sibling passed away a few weaks ago, so she's arranging the headstone. Which is frustrating, because although she repeatedly told the person she was dealing with that she doesn't speak Chinese (well, she does, but not that good), the other person kept lapsing into Chinese. Chinese is so comforting when talking about funeral stuff, don't you think? Crucial details should not be explicated in Chinese to someone who is a native speaker of English and not conversant in the hometown tongue.
The actual native speaker of Chinese may not be a perfect match for the task. Unsuited because of idiocy.

I have advised her to get everything in writting, the contractual details especially, what goes on the front of the stone exactly, precise dates and names, so we can go over it together.
Seeing as I read Chinese. And the person she dealt with may be an idiot.

Chinese names are three characters. No wild stabs please! English names and terms are sometimes so thoroughly butchered by native speakers of Chinese as to be gibberish.
Crucial details are, of course, just that: crucial details.

Oh, and by the way: fan hung sik (粉紅色) is NOT a suitable colour for a grave stone.
Hues of red are nice lucky happy colours and all that, but what the hell!?!??!

For an hour after I got home I heard about Chinese madness.

Is that extra? Is that the final price? Final final final?!? There's more?!!? No crosses! No g*damn lotus flower carving! How much for real? Do not offer me a group rate, dammit!

Oh, and apparently an appointment time is just a lucky guess, a stab in the dark, if you showed up on time the other person could still be on the freeway or buying dim sum .......
As you know, the medical persons I see a few times a year are Chinese. They are efficient and courteous, and because I show up well ahead of the time I'm supposed to be there I am often finished with my appointment before the time I was supposed to be there. Conceivably because some other appointed person was still on the freeway or buying dim sum .......

No wonder the office manager at the clinic always looks a little harried. And I can remember once an old couple chewing her out.
Until she explained to them, based on the paperwork they showed her, that the main reason why she could not find them in her system was that they weren't supposed to be there but two floors above in a different department, at a different time. As it said, clearly, in both English and Chinese.

Yeah okay, thank you come again.

And y'all maybe need that group rate, huh?


Everybody at Chinese Hospital I have EVER dealt with has ALWAYS been on time. My cardiologist, who is also Chinese, but at a different hospital, has also always been on time. My eye-doctor, whose office is in Chinatown two blocks away from the hospital, has likewise always been on time. My apartment mate, Chinese American, is exact about that too. Our staff at the Hong Kong office years ago, was also precise about those things. If they said they'd call at five minutes past four o'clock our time, the phone would ring at exactly five minutes past four.

The only times I've ever had to wait were when I showed up far too early. Or two weeks ago when there had been a medical emergency in radiology that of course had had precedence, and a Spanish speaking gentleman was threatening to take his "business" elsewhere.

[Señor, that's a splendid idea! You're not doing anybody any favours by being here, and they're far too polite and professional to tell you where to shove it.]

And I was still out of there way before I expected to be.



So instead of preparing myself something hot to eat upon my return from Marin, I snacked on Funwari Sucre cakes while she ranted furiously about Chinatown and Chinese ways of doing things. It was very entertaining. She's extremely eloquent and capable of expressing herself with point and venom. Especially when pissed off.




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NO MORE VOLLEYBALL

When I stepped out briefly yesterday evening the fog had come in. Very lovely. Especially when remembering that several people I know are sweltering, and lyrically bitching about the heat in their parts of the country. Where, at this time of year, no one in their right minds lives, reason being that it's too hot there.

Why, you can't even barbecue, given that if the neighbors see you nekkid they might languidly call the cops on you.

TOP OF THE HILL, THREE BLOCKS AWAY

With a little bit of luck we'll have nice weather (foggy) till the end of Indian Summer, and won't ever have to break out the shorts. Trust me, you don't want to see me in shorts.


Years ago, the Glynn sisters, who were from Ireland and charming, very enthusiastically persuaded me to wear shorts for an interdepartmental volleyball game in the sandy area beyond the parking lot the next day.
Turns out I was the only person doing so. They stayed on the sidelines and didn't participate, and waxed cheerfully eloquent about my appearance.

What especially pleased them was the combo of socks and shoes under the shorts.
Precisely like a British tourist at the Costa Del Sol.
Yes, I also had a buttoned shirt on.
Black socks. Topsiders.

Since then I don't do shorts.


Team sports of any type ... nope.



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A TYPE OF FOOD

This is certainly an eye-catching headline: "40 Percent Of American Kids Think Hot Dogs And Bacon Are Plants".

What it means is that many children in this country are, in their own minds, vegetarians.
The term "minds" might be a misnomer.


40 PERCENT OF AMERICAN KIDS THINK HOT DOGS AND BACON ARE PLANTS

Cite:
A new study has found that a significant percentage of 4 to 7-year-old children from the United States believe hotdogs, hamburgers, and bacon come from plants.

Published in the Journal of Environmental Psychology, a team of psychologists asked children to categorize a range of foods, including cheese, french fries, bacon, popcorn, shrimp, almonds, and egg. The responses threw up a number of surprises, including that 47 percent of the 176 participants believed that french fries came from animals.
End cite.

Got that? French fries come from slaughtered animals.
Vast herds of them roving the prairies.
Rumble rumble rumble.

This image stolen from I CAN HAS CHEEZBURGER?

At least, I think that's where it came from.

Also: "Sand was considered edible by 1 percent, five times less than the amount who believed cat to be a type of food."


This may explain why I was the only Caucasian at the restaurant today during lunch. They specialize in Cantonese roast meats. There wasn't a French fry within three blocks.
No ketchup there either. A typical child would have starved.


One lady who came in wanted fish ball fish slice noodle soup (魚蛋魚片河粉湯 'yü daan yü pin ho fan tong'). Fish balls, can do. No actual fish, ergo no fish slices. So fish ball noodle soup. Fine then. Fish ball noodle soup.

魚蛋河粉湯。



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RANDOM SYNAPSE FIRING

Because of the internet I now know what an Eppendorf tube is. Which, given that I have not actually been anywhere near a microcentrifuge, is not remarkable. With a microcentrifuge, centripetal forces are used to separate substances of greater and lesser densities. Not really part of my life, but I would imagine that there is such a thing down at the clinic, and a part of me may have been spinning around madly, seeing as I had blood drawn last week.

Yeah um. May explain the occasional dizziness, huh?

So far they haven't called me yet to tell me I'm a zombie, and I haven't noticed dark figures lurking in the shadows with wooden stakes and silver chains. But one wouldn't, would one?
It would likely be the last thing one would see.

Perhaps they'd send a Taoist priest?


So the question really is whether San Francisco Chinese Hospital has any religious experts on call. This is relevant, because a few years ago when I got health insurance I chose the clinic at Chinese Hospital as my regular care provider, figuring that it was close by, not the recipient of masses of drug addicts freaking out or stabbing victims bleeding to death, gun shot victims, crazies, alcoholics having fits, or criminals foaming at the mouth, unlike at SF General (where they lost a patient in the airwell one time). Their emergency room isn't a battle zone or a out-of-control psych ward.

Good people, and experience dealing with grumpy codgers cussing in foreign languages.


That last is more important than the religious bit. Seeing as I'm grumpy, and I often express myself unprintably in Dutch or Brabantish dialect. Besides a few other tongues.


Because of frequent association, I have learned not to swear in Cantonese. The last thing anyone wants to hear, wether on a gurney OR while sipping a cappuccino and reading the Chronicle one morning at the Caffè Trieste, is some sweet young lady remarking in a wounded tone to someone else "keui kong chou hau ah" (佢講粗口啊).


To the best of my recollection, when my appendix ruptured, my foul language was entirely in Dutch. So far I have not encountered anyone at the hospital who understands that. Although if there is one, they are probably hiding it, possibly because they do not wish to embarrass me. "Yeah man, we heard you cussing up a storm at five thirty A.M. one time, and were amazed at how filthy your tongue is. Quite vile. Also extraordinairy, but good lord!"

LAM CHING YING (林正英), A SEASONED PROFESSIONAL

[殭屍先生 (九叔)]

They're probably hiding the Taoist priest too. Some of us kwailo might be daemons or zombies, and they'll need him to exorcise us when the time comes.



For your information, the Hungry Ghost Festival (中元節 'jung yuen jit'; 七月半 'chat yuet pun') this year was last Friday, August 12. As you would naturally expect, I was at work.



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IN SOME WAYS EXACTLY LIKE ENGLAND

If one wishes to live an Englishman in the tropics, it is axiomatic that there should be a chachanteng or beng kaa near enough that one can have a spot of milk tea and a slice of cream swirl Swiss roll. A decent tobacconist should be accessible by mail, as well as a provisioner of Dundee or Oxford marmalade and dried fish.
One should also have a mosquito net.

None of this is available in the valley, anywhere between Redding and Bakersfield.
It's a miserable place, with tattooed savages and cannibals.
Christians, and man-sized dung beetles.


It is quite possible that Jonathan who lives in the Shomron would be comfortable there. He seems to have an amazing tolerance for primitive conditions and hinterland Americans, as well as a keen sense of adventure.

The rest of us will avoid the place. Even if one could get regular shipments of Rattray's pipe tobacco, it would be a hardship post. And there's no gong sik naai chaa.

If there's one place that's ripe for malaria and dengue, it's the vast unfathomed interior.
The bush. The wild lands. Wugga Wugga Country. The rimboe.

[Malaria: 瘧疾 ('yeuk jat'), 冷熱病 ('leng yit beng'). Dengue: 骨痛熱症 ('gwat tung yit jeng'), 出血性登革熱 ('cheut huet sing tang gaak yit'). Typhoid: 傷寒症 ('seung hon jeng'). Hinterland Americans: 生番 ('saang faan'), 特朗普黨派人 ('dak long pou dong paai yan'). Rimboe: 叢林 ('chung lam'). Water purification tablets: 淨化水藥片 ('jeng faa seui yeuk pin').]

And in the middle of that is the delta, where gigantic prehistoric beasts trumpet their mating calls across the brackish water, startling the smaller creatures and the marsh birds.

The insects are numerous, the heat is unbearable.



Perhaps I should mention that the high in San Francisco today was sixty six degrees Fahrenheit, it is presently sixty, and there is fog at the top of Nob Hill. Sweaters!

Teatime found me at a local chachanteng surrounded by animated people getting pleasantly whacked on caffeinated beverages. An elderly woman hollered that someone was a crazy sicko as she left, and the object of her ire grinned wickedly like he had just scored a triumph. At another table a pleasant looking old chap was noshing on broad rice noodles in soup with savoury bits, and two toothy gentlemen close by were conversing in almost unintelligible Toishanese. A fellow who retired over three years ago looks considerable less unkempt than then, happier too. When a half Chinese half Caucasian couple came in for a snack, I heard the waitress speak more English than I ever knew that she knew.
Three old men divided a scallion bun.


Very enjoyable. In some parts of the interior it got over one hundred and ten degrees today. There was much distress, and they blamed Biden for the heat.
People lazed around limply, dangling their bras.
Far too hot for those. Darn liberals!
Neener neener neener.



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ABOUT THOSE CRAB CAKES

The crab cake industry is taking over. Everytime I click on Microsoft start, where there are "news" articles, there are at least a dozen crab cake pieces. For the record, I do not own a crab cake, have not recently eaten one or expressed an interest in doing so, have never looked up a recipe for crab cakes, and can't even remember the last time I touched one of the damned things.

You know, Microsoft, I would far rather see cute kitten pictures.
Crab cakes are hardly a substitute for "miao miao".

From Wikipedia:
A crab cake is a variety of fishcake that is popular in the United States. It is composed of crab meat and various other ingredients, such as bread crumbs, mayonnaise, mustard (typically prepared mustard, but sometimes mustard powder), eggs, and seasonings. The cake is then sautéed, baked, grilled, deep fried, or broiled. Crab cakes are traditionally associated with the area surrounding the Chesapeake Bay, in particular the states of Maryland and Virginia. Although the earliest use of the term "crab cake" is commonly believed to date to Crosby Gaige's 1939 publication New York World's Fair Cook Book in which they are described as "Baltimore crab cakes," earlier usages can be found such as in Thomas J. Murrey's book Cookery with a Chafing Dish published in 1891. Crab cakes are particularly popular along the coast of the Mid-Atlantic and South Atlantic states, where the crabbing industry thrives.
End cite.

News and kitten pictures must be really slow if you're filling up on crab cakes.




By the way: I live in San Francisco, California, NOT in the blasted Mid-Atlantic and South Atlantic states of the US. We know what to do with crab here. And we enjoy cracking the beast and sucking out the delicious little bits in crannies, we have no need to turn it into a greasy cat food patty.

Did some frozen suburban teevee kibble company bribe y'all?
I am now more likely than ever to not eat crab cakes.



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A COMPLETELY COMOY DAY

The big question is do I want a relationship? And, if so, how? I'm a bit too old to be a catch, or have overmuch energy and the stupidity required, and I'm somewhat stubborn, eccentric, and fairly satisfied with my routines. After my morning walk on days off I like to read the news over a second cup of coffee, have another pipe, read and research on the internet (I love Wikipedia and the various dictionary sites), hit 'like' on cute kitten pictures or videos, and head out to Chinatown for a late lunch. Wednesdays it's usually dragon tongue fish over rice (蒜蓉焗龍脷飯 'suen yung lung lei yu faan'), Sriracha, and a cup of milk tea (港式奶茶 'gong sik naai chaa'). Thursday is dealers choice, followed by a pastry and a cup of milk tea at a familiar bakery where they are rather pleased to see me (朋友，你好，你坐你坐 'pang yau, nei hou, nei cho nei cho'). Hey man, whazzap, take a seat.

Want ad: sane and somewhat of an emotionally cold fish pipe smoking Dutch American who bathes nearly enough seeks a warm-bodied sensible individual of the suitable gender who is NOT seeing a therapist regularly and does NOT believe herself a strong spiritual being and incredibly gifted and artistic, for occasional experimental hugging during cold weather.
Persons channeling for Bronze Age warrioresses need not apply.
Nor habitual marijuana users, or dipsomaniacs.
Vaccinations are a sine qua non.
No gluten-phobes.

Serious inquiries only. Must read books. No weirdoes.

TEATIME PIPE

After lunch today I attended the 'town hall' meeting on Stockton Street about the rash of crimes and violence against Asian Americans here in the city. Given that my regular care physician, the entire team down at the clinic, my cardiologist, my eye doctor, my apartment mate, and my landlady, are all Chinese American, as well as some neighbors of whom I'm rather fond, plus several people I know, you can understand that this wave of xenophobia is hitting very close to home. San Francisco's city administrators are apparently upset about it too, but don't have much of a clue how to deal with it.

The meeting was more political outreach and letting people know that their concerns are being heard than anything really constructive. "More cops, more teamwork, more hotline." "We're paying attention, really we are." I left before it concluded, having heard enough.
And needing a breather.

DUSK PIPE

Not enough of the non-Han attendees wore masks.
Bit of a problem, that. The pandemic ain't over.
It's presently averaging 500 stiffs per day.
Tuesday August 16, 1,037,935 dead.
Sunday July 17, 1,023,799 dead.

I'm okay with so many Caucasian office workers and tourists not wearing masks and gaily clustering in warm happy communicable piles all over the place. Honest. I just wish they weren't literally all over. Perhaps there's a special place for them?



Met the bookseller for drinks in North Beach later in the evening. The crowd at the karaoke place was fairly mellow, and quite well behaved. Even though Frank Sinatra is now probably spinning in his grave (we should harness that energy and solve the energy crisis). It's a pity The Back Street Boys aren't spinning in theirs.

NIGHT PIPE

Probably a departmental after work gathering. Team spirit and all that. IT wallahs, perhaps.

It's a cold moist night in San Francisco right now. That may explain all the Caucasians and their cozy communicable clumps. There is haze at the top of the hill, and I hear foghorns.



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HOW TO BE SANE: TUTORIAL

The best way to childproof your home is to have a manned machine gun emplacement with sandbags at the front door and barbed wire around the perimeter. And to burn sage. Chanting also works.
This information is the result of heading into Facebook after coffee and a pipe.

The following are also Facebookian:

1.
"Hello, this Alex on a recorded line ... " followed by the usual recorded hooha. I've just been rude to a non-existent person.

2.
Based on a foodmap I saw recently, I now know what to feed a Republican: Steak well done, a veggie burger as a side, tuna salad with cottage cream (appetizer?), and everything with lots of cilantro. I'll call it the Florida platter.

3.
A friend said that "First Reformed was really boring". Which, naturally brings up the following data: Second Christian Reformed is actually a term for a split-off from the Fourth Christian Reformed church (Pella), which itself is a split-off variant of Dutch Reformed.
Second Christian Reformed should not be confused with Third Christian Reformed or First Christian Reformed, even though most Christian Reformed Churches adhere to the same source documents: The Apostle's Creed, the Nicene Creed, the Heidelberg Catechism, the Belgic Confession, and the Canons of Dort.



As one deviates further from one's younger vibrant teenage self, the effect of caffeine is more pronounced as regards the cerebral cortex in the morning, while the delicious beverage serves additionally to 're-hydrate' the system because one abstained largely from liquids in the hours before bed last night. So as not to be ripped untimely from the sweet sweet arms of sleep by one's bladder. This affects how the mind works for the first few hours of the day.

One can safely say that the combination of caffeine and nicotine is psychotropic. Arguably even therapeutic, even though the medical profession with quite some justification opines that nicotine is dubious. I asked my previous personal care physician about coffee, and he said to go right ahead, because it has antioxidants. It's good for you. To me, caffeine, like a healthy walk around the neighborhood, is logically paired with a pipe of tobacco.
And both of them contribute to a calm, well-balanced, sane individual.

Sadly, for some people this doesn't work. For a few days out of every month. Caffeine and the menstrual period are not a good combination, generally speaking. Be gentle with them during that time. Normal life will eventually resume.

I am an expert in these matters.



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REACTING THE RIGHT WAY

Some dumbass to whom I never pay any attention stated last week"this is now officially Nazi Germany Gestapo meets Soviet Union KGB. But it will backfire spectacularly. The people will send you sick Democrat communist scumbags who are imitating Nazis packing. You just lit the fuse. B-I-G mistake." That poor demented moron once wet himself with a sadomasochist murder fantasy involving pitchforks, jackhammers, and blow torches. He is, in other words, a perfect example of the typical middle class Republicans. Psychopaths.

Precisely the type of men who sit in their basements huffing stogies, watching football, and pontificating pointlessly about world affairs, while hoping that no one notices that Jeff may have crapped his Depends™ again, there's a yeast infection in Rich's pits, and Dan's intestinal gas (or is that halitosis?) may have reached the terminal stage.

It is quite likely their wives beat them.
Yes dear, I won't do that again.
Whimper whimper.



The kind of men for whom Trump and De Santis are the ideals of such butch he-man studly masculinity that it gives them monumental stiffies.

Because of my responsibilities babysitting senescent reprobates, I am exposed to such folks fairly regularly. Often I must remind them to take their metamucil, or wipe after number two.

I no longer spend time in the company of many cigar smokers when I'm not working. There are better things to do. Plus I don't watch either football or Fox News, so what's the point?



AFTER THOUGHT: A CHRISTIAN PROM QUEEN

Marjorie Taylor Green tweeted "This is the rogue behaviour of communist countries, NOT the United States of America!!! -- The political persecution MUST stop!!!"

Secretely, she's kind of jealous. I can tell.
Wishes it had happened to her.
Moans of ecstacy.

Somewhere, I'm sure, is a centerfold featuring her wearing a starspangled scanty fingering the Bible while moaning over a Jewish Space Laser. Probably hanging on the wall of a body shop that fixes pick-up trucks in Texas.

They really need to stop spiking the ice tea with meth down there.
It's making the natives loopy.



I have nothing but love and respect for my fellow Americans.



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AUNT MAGGIE SAW IT COMING

Objectively, the "good old days" were not very long ago. And they weren't that good. Obama got elected in 2008. What was particularly good about that was the sheer number of crazy Republicans soiling themselves at all hours of the day or night, because of imaginary boogie woogies. I fondly remember Texas being particularly insane -- Obama gonna invade us -- as well as the paranoid e-mails Bob sent into a mailing list he and I were both on claiming that the President and the Democrats were going to come and get our guns, install microchips in our crania, and force us all to eat soylent green. He has since then gotten divorced, married a harpy half his age, and is being taken for everything he has by her. One of my friends suggested that I could have learned a lot from him.

Now, I wouldn't mind marrying a harpy half my age. Provided she was a nice harpy. But there are several problems that promptly come to mind. What would we talk about? What books has she read, how is her knowledge of twentieth century history (and mediaeval times), what does she eat, and how tolerant is she of stubborn old goats who smoke a pipe?

Sadly, most harpies half my age are precisely that; half my age.

Not that I'm a stubborn old goat.

Several of my friends are, besides being the same age as I am. And I do smoke a pipe.

Enjoyed one after tea time, filled with Cornell & Diehl's Sunbear Mountain Flower broken flake, which I bought last week. It's a good tobacco. The sweetness becomes a little more noticeable a few minutes after lighting up, after it has settling into a cruising smolder. Goes well with a hot cup of tea, and would be perfect in a spacious private library with the windows open and the sounds of young men quite a distance away playing cricket, or, better yet, Elizabeth Taylor snarling about her sister-in-law's horrid little no-neck monsters.

One's chosen harpy should have an actively engaged brain. This becomes more important as one gets older. Sadly many men do not realize this.
Conversely, it stands to reason that a decent harpy appreciates a nice cup of tea. NOT that bubble muck that has become standard these days.


The good old days were before tapioca balls.



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THE PITUITARY GLAND EXTRACT IS KICKING IN

He had planned to get in some golf, perhaps a bite of haggis, and incidentally dump the body of his treacherous son-in-law in a nearby bog. MacTollund man, as it were. Because the Scots really need a tanned corpse. But sadly, it was not to be. To the great joy of very many people in Scotland his passport was yanked by the FBI when they raided that vulgar dump in Florida. Several people in Ireland are also happy; they too have golf courses.

It's the fault of Hunter Biden's laptop.
As well as Space Aliens.


Fifteen boxes stuffed with My Pillow™.
And what remained of Jimmy Hoffa.

Thing is, he doesn't want to be stuck in Florida when the iguanas start falling from trees again. He'd rather be in jail. Once one of them stuck to his head and it was several days before anyone realized that it wasn't his hairpiece.



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THAT EXTENDED WARRANTY ETCETERA

Your junk phone calls depend very much on who got your number. Since switching from a land line two years ago to a cell-phone, I no longer get Indian tech scammers trying to break into my computer, but people trying to sell me an extended warranty on a vehicle I do not have because my file "came across" their desk. I haven't driven in decades.
So that particular vehicle is a dead puppy.

In trying to find dental insurance I unleashed a storm of interest among hard working pushy Filippinas keen to sell me cheap, cheap, cheap healthcare solutions, and affordable funeral insurance.

Stan from my local airduct company no longer calls.
A landline equals airducts and ventilation.
Cell phone? Methane breather.

Extended warranties. Healthcare. Corpse storage.


Also no longer keen to contact me are those Republican fundraisers who presumed that a landline meant a crusty old fart who wanted the grand old days of public wippings and vast country estates back.

I must admit that I actually do want public wippings. Sincerely. There are several Republican scum who would be improved by it. Vast country estates, however, in California would mean wine production and snooty neighbors, plus the almost year round danger of wildfires burning down my hot tub, and redneck trailer park foothill fire refugees sheltering in my asbestos car port displacing the Maserati or trashing my artisanal compost heap made with all natural organic materials (and NO gluten).

As a Dutch American descended from a long line of New Amsterdam mercantilists and Scots Presbyterian settlers (the lesser component), it is my considered opinion that the rot in this country started when we let in all those blasted Germans, French, and Cubans. The constant offensive presence of light beer, velouté, and crappy coffee diminished the sheer joy of living in a former colonial possession, and good Chinese and South East Asian foods are but a light amelioration for the cultural dominance of white white white fratboyism, the real house wives, and simple minded right wing religious cults like Lutheranism, Southern Baptists, Methodists, television fundamentalists, and Texas.

[Texas is a religion. There's no other way to explain all that degeneracy. It's repulsive.]

I envision a glorious dream future of sugar cane fields from the East Bay all the way through to the Carolinas, where the smelly gibbering masses swelter under the hot sun for paltry recompense. We must reorganise this country with rum, sodomy, and the lash.


There have been FIVE SIX sales phone calls since six thirty this morning. When I was trying to sleep. Five. Six. I am NOT interested in your cheap burial plots OR the affordable health care options that make Filippinas excited. What is wrong with you people?



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SEABIRD MISERY

The seagull overhead was very clearly expressing unhappiness, even complete emotional anguish. What makes a seagull so miserable? Do seagulls feel love? When you're a seagull life is supposed to be simpler and more even keeled. This seagull was not dealing well with his or her with despair. It was heart rending.
I felt for the seagull. So did the crows, who vocalized sympathetically.
Despair. Avian angst. Sadness, loss.


Early mornings in San Francisco are lovely, if one ignores traumatized birds.
After going back and forth over the houses several times, it flew off.


The rest of the day was marked by low tide at the mud flats, half buried tires, foreign tourists, fermentive smells, a faint odour of either distant skunk or ganja, and an old man repetitively asking what cigar he was smoking. It was a Tatuaje Havana VI Verocú Blue No.1, which is a Nicaraguan puro. A very nice cigar produced for Pete Johnson by the Garcia family.

Also, the pipe club met today. I have no idea what they smoked, because I only joined them during lunch and didn't ask. I may have come across as quite insane at that point, being high as a kite on overmuch caffeine. I smoked three bowls of Sun Bear Mountain Flower today.

SUN BEAR MOUNTAIN FLOWER (SMALL BATCH)
Blended By Jeremy Reeves
Bright Virginias and Oriental leaf, cased with tequila, elderflower and honey.

Let's ignore the fact that the description sounds pretentious and frou-frou. This is a fine product. Thickish broken flakes, loose press, with a slightly floral tin reek. It is smooth, slightly earthy, faintly spicy. I like this, but I won't publicly recommend it as I do not want the local supply to dry up too fast. I'll probably end up buying another half dozen tins. It makes a good casual smoke. Unlike many other honey augmented tobaccos, it isn't impossible to dry out, and does render nicely to ash. Of the bowls I've smoked this weekend only a couple left shreds at the bottom.


Jeremy Reeves more and more is hitting it right out of the ball park. Palmetto is a dynamite Balkan that reawakens memory strata that were long buried -- my college years at Drucquers in Berkeley -- while Anthology, despite the startling tin note of Limburger cheese (which other smokers have chosen to call "bready" and "yeasty", is one of the most delightful Virginia products I have found in years. I've stashed several tins of both. Sun Bear is nice enough to make sure I've got enough. I lost that opportunity on the previous edition (Sun Bear Black Locust), which by the time I woke up had been gone from the shelves for over an hour. What happened was that Calvin brought an open tin to the meeting of the pipe club last month, and the members went ape and cleared it out that day.

See, Calvin has gravitas. People automatically respect his opinions. Whereas I come across as everyone's wicked uncle Bertie, who seems to be incorrigible and a bit of a type. Which is actually more like Bernard, who last anyone heard was galavanting around in Northern Syria for inexplicable reasons. Along with M., who moved to Boston years ago, the Netherlandish contingent sort of dominates, as Calvin and Bernard are also overseas Dutch. Even though there have always been way more Anglo Americans in the club, we "cheese" are kind of strong flavoured .....


On a different note I made sure that everyone heard about the time William, Nick, and myself were at the Occidental, when young lady decided that Nick with his silver hair and elfin good looks was the cutest and most delightful old fellow she had ever seen, and got close enough to bury her tongue in his ear.
John expressed regret that he had left the bar early and missed it.
But surely things like that happen to all pipesmokers.
So it's only a matter of time.



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GOOD LUCK

About five hours after getting off work I stepped out for a last pipe of the day. My feet and legs had not fully recovered yet, and it was ill-advised to do so. I walked for about a block and a half before returning home and sitting on the front steps to finish my smoke.
From a distance, Polk Street was audible. Raucous.

Either they were celebrating the misfortunes of forty five, OR the CDC's new guidelines.

Which, in a nutshell, are: You're on your own, bitches, good friggin' luck.

Understandable, given that despite the pandemic still being very much with us (over 8,000 dead in the last fortnight), people will not mask up, and those that refused to get jabbed are even more stubborn about that now. There are mass events. Parties. Social get-togethers. Full bars and restaurants. Sporting events, music fests, and stupid behaviour.

8,000+ dead last fortnight. Over five hundred per day.

You're on your own, bitches.

Good friggin' luck.

Truth be told, I'm quite okay with that. Too many Christians anyway, we can lose a few. It's mostly antivaxxers ("Christians") snuffing it, as well as people doing their own research.
By any reasonable standard it's no major loss.

Three dozen states have more Covid deaths per thousand residents than California, and four states have TWICE the Covid deaths: Mississippi, Arizona, Oklahoma, and Alabama.

My piles bleed for those poor bastards in those red states. Truly.

My "thoughts" and "prayers" go out to them.

Milk crates and Tide Pods.



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CONSPIRACY THEORIES, GUNS, AND JESUS

For which rabid Republican shit-weaselette does the phrase "somebody smack that bitch" immediately come to mind when reading the latest news? Hint: It's Marjorie Taylor Greene, though Lauren Boebert comes a close second. As I understand it, both creatures perfectly represent their constituents as well as the great state of Texas AND a mudpuddle somewhere.

Why is it that every female Republican politician is a strident ambulatory vomit bag? Except for San Francisco's own Ellen Lee Zhou, a fervently religious Christian who lacks a firm grounding, bless her heart. Which is very sad.


In case you're wondering about Greene and Boebert, Boebert represents somewhere in Colorado, and Marjorie Taylor Green is the representative of Bumf*ck in the South.
Ellen Lee Zhou lost the local election in which she ran hands down.


Then of course there's Tulsi Gabbard, who is hand in pants with the Russians and acts like their mole and mouthpiece, as well as homemaker and elderly rabid dingo Sarah Palin.

[Tulsi Gabbard is allegedly a Democrat. A notorious self-promoting opportunist and bullshitter.]

SMACK THAT BITCH

These five and Louie Gomert represent America's womanhood. They are fine upstanding people, paragons, and examples to the world. We should crowdfund sending them somewhere abroad to further the spread of civilization.

At home.



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