AVERTING CRISIS WITH SUDS

At the laundromat the little girl just could not believe that the snack machine was broken. She could see the sour gummies and the bag of Pepperridge Farm cookies! They were right in front of her! The universe could NOT be so unreasonable as to take her quarters and give nothing in return! This was wrong, very wrong, and you could see the state of denial and dismay forming. This was NOT how things were supposed to be. Sad.

Four years old andd already existence was playing cruel tricks.

She was exceptionally well-behaved. Very modulated, not tantrumic, and keen to help her daddy doing laundry. The complete failure of the universe to deliver rewards for swallowed quarters was freakish, but she did not pout. After helping him load the washer they went across the street and bought a packet of cookies from the store. When they came back she turned her attention to the drinks machine, and he purchased a can of sparkling water for them to share (probably because he know what too much sugar can do).

Turns out the "parkling wadder" was too "parkly"!

Judging by her uterances and comportment, she has the best parents in the world and will grow up to be a sparkling and pleasant member of society. An adorable little person. Intelligent and personable.

Yeah, normally I am not enchanted with little people.

So it turns out that uncle grumpy Dutch American actually did not mind the distraction of a lively little person in the laundromat while he was washing his grungies and trying to turn his mind inside out while waiting for the machine to finish.

[When there I often meditate and tune out other people and their noise.]

Also, I noticed that there was a person out of it outside, playing in traffic on the intersection. Whose stoned or batshit life was preserved through sheer good luck, low vehicle count, and the fact that Waymo robot taxis are programmed not to drive over random humans, even if they're far more random than is good for them.

He came close to the door several times, but though wide open it proved a complicated concept, and he did not come inside even though he could see the seating, and the brightness, and the neat comfy floors.

When I left with my clean clothes the daddy and his tyke were still there, and the random fellow was sleeping on the sidewalk.



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THE TROLL ZONE

Once you get past the bend near the fortress-like educational institution the city gets depressing as hell. Which means that to contrast with that the eating establishments are cheerier. I had finished my errands, and went out into the Sunset District on a journey of discovery. By mid-afternoon it starts gettin gloomy out there, and I was peckish.
I think the next time I do that I'll look up a likely chachanteng.

There are many crêpe places out there. I did not feel like crêpes.
I am not greatly enamoured of expensive pannekoeken.
Or yogurt. Fruit slushies. Bubble tea drinks.
Five pizzerias in two blocks.

The restaurant area peters out, and the fog begins. Grey buildings, grumpy liquour store owners who don't speak English, Dutch, or any other civilized language. Chiropractors, insurance offices, nail salons, and hairdressers. Slovenly looking teenagers.
Access and decess by request.


There's a hump in the terrain beyond which everything turns ugly.

Several people, seeing my tobacco pipe, looked disapproving. It was a very handsome pipe, black sandblast taper-stemmed straight billiard, in excellent condition. A classic example. They had no business scowling so. Their grandfather or uncle would have been quite pleased to own it. Back in the day.

Fewer nuts on the bus. But also fewer actual human beings. Some remarkable examples of large. Plain pallid faces, pale because of the lack of sunlight, and blah because there were no thoughts behind the vacant eyes.

When I said large, I meant extra large.
Slav-o-celtic bone structure.
Puce personalities.


On the other hand, there are Burmese and Vietnamese restaurants out there, along with Indian food places. Plus coffee. Lots of coffee. So it's not all bad.



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SNAKE WORSHIPPING HEATHENS!

A discussion on the internet had interesting things to say anent the recent election in New York City. I shall quote it unattributed.

Spouse of a preacher: "Accusing Mamdani, a Twelver Shi’ite, of supporting Salafi jihadism is kind of like accusing a Roman Catholic of supporting the Orange Order. But then the idea that Islam is no more monolithic than Christianity is apparently too much for some people to grasp."

Person with an umlaut: "A lot of people barely grasp the fact Christianity is not monolithic."

Opinionated Dutch American: "Then they haven't met my people. Who are convinced that everyone else is a heretic, an idolater, or an agent of the Spanish. Or, even worse, Anabaptists. Let us NOT even speak of Charismatics or Evangelicals!"

Opinion Dutch American again: "And then there's that sad Jehova's Witness downstairs, to whom I give fresh fruit or veggies every week (she's old), who is convinced that as a stubborn Dutchman I will go to hell (and probably ruin the place)."

Look, if you think that the Christian of a different sect next door sees eye to eye with you, you are daft and ignorant of your own subset of frightful heresy which must be expunged brutally with fire, swords, and modern weaponry. If he does see eye to eye with you despite being a different type of heretic, he too is ignorant, expunge worthy, and will end up in hell. Where both of you will discover that Opinionated Dutch Americans have taken over the place and hold sway. Hell is too good for you. We'll make that damned clear.


And NO speaking in tongues!



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THOUGHTS AFTER TEA TIME

The reason why there are no lobster space aliens on this planet is that the Cantonese women ate them all. They probably landed in Guangzhou or Hong Kong -- let's pick an advanced and civilized metropolis, one of them said and the others agreed -- and before they knew it hordes of crustacean-loving women descended upon them, clacking chopsticks and spatulas, and turned their spacecraft upside down and made giant woks out of them.

Cantonese women, it is well known, have deep and flexible stomachs. Unlike white people, who can barely eat at all. I know this because my apartment mate, a Cantonese woman, is afraid that I'm starving. Starving! "I'm full", I will say, such as for instance this past Monday evening when we we're belatedly celebrating my birthday (which had actually occured a few weeks ago), whereupon she looked at me reproachfully because I barely made a dent in the food on the table. Rice (飯 'faan'), steamed pork patty with salted egg (鹹蛋蒸豬肉餅 'haam daan jeng yiuk beng'), fried tofu and mushrooms (炸豆腐同蘑菇 'ja tau fu tong mo gu'), and pig knuckle with fermented tofu (南乳豬手 'naam yü chü sau').

It was all delicious. But too much. Only one of us is a Cantonese woman.
Once I translated the specials, she especially wanted the knuckle.
Fermented tofu makes a great gravy.

Afterwards, sated, we waddled home. With tonnes of leftovers.
The refrigerator is packed to the rafters.
Mmm, pork patty!

This all came to mind because the gentleman whom I see occasionally at the bakery was there again with his little daughter. Emphasis on 'little'. Although she must be four of five by now. She will grow up to be a Cantonese woman, with an enduring hunger, with jaws that bite and the claws that catch. Someone for whom chopsticks are an extension of the soul. Clackity clackity! She'll clearly be still fairly small comparatively speaking when fully grown, but if a white woman could see how much she and her female kin will put away without effort, gaining no weight, she'd be insanely jealous. Then loose it when the small person exclaims "we've hardly eaten!"


Yep. The lobster aliens from planet Bisque stood no chance. They were gone before they knew what hit them. Next time, land In England, where there are no gourmands.



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NEW YORK NEW YORK

Over on Facebook the usual 'doom'ngloomantimamdani' folks who were screaming about the antiChrist made flesh, oh no, whatever shall we do, are oddly silent. Perhaps they choked on their bile. Or it's the end of times and fire is raining from their skies, their rivers are running with blood, and strange terrifying creatures are taking over their back yard.

Here in San Francisco, the sun just came out. The rain appears to have stopped. Time to do my laundry and bleach my 'Stalinist Mayhem' tee-shirt lily white.

New York City hasn't been the same since we let in all those damned non-Dutch speaking heathen English speakers. The ONLY good thing there is the pizza. And the museums. And the public library. For the rest, it's a shithole. For years I got to hear about the wonders of their damned bagels, why, these were manna from heaven the best thing ever all of you haven't had real bagels or corned beef sandwiches or sparkling selzer and "real" Chinese food plus bodegas, you poor schmucks you haven't even lived till you've eaten miserable hot dogs flavoured with nothing but onions mustard and stale cart water ......

And now the people that live there have just told you to go piss up a rope.

Who are the schmendricks now, you patzers?

It's time for all of you to wake up and smell the caffeinated beverage. The rest of us don't care about an overcrowded stinking metropolis with the world's largest sewer rats, cockroaches, and child-molesting real estate developers. Farshtey?

Exception being a very close friend who is heading there in two weeks, as he does every year, to eat well and spend hours at The Strand Bookstore. And the East Village. And Chinatown. And the Museums. Pilgrimage. Possibly schmalz herring.



MINOR POSTCRIPTVE RAMBLING

My plans today are, after laundry, eating lunch in Chinatown at a place favoured by families and elderly people, overwhelmingly non-caucasian, then grocery shopping, followed by milk tea, pastry, and conversation with deaf old geezers in an environment where Toishanese is the dominant language. Can't do that next week because I'll be getting ready to show up at a medical facility before the crack of dawn having fasted for twelve hours for a minor procedure during which they don't want me choking on what I ate the day before when they stick a breathing tube down my throat or whatever.

The good thing is I'll catch up on my sleep while I'm under, and should be up and walking again within hours. Though avoiding tobacco because nicotine is inimical to the restorative processes, which does not please me one bit. I will (probably) be not smoking for a few days afterwards. Expect some mighty peculiar and bitchy blog posts during that time. The last time that I 'quit' I lost several friends and we bombed somewhere. Besides mass protests and assaults on personal liberty. And food poisoning at various franchises.
Where I wouldn't eat if you paid me. Feh.
You've been warned.


Pizza and cheesecake help you heal. Very New York.
I've also heard good reports about hot dogs.
But only with onions and mustard.
Plus stale cart water.



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IT'S ALIVE!

Respiratory distress, hypoxemia, syncope. Over on a nursing website I saw mention of an elderly patient with all three of those on his admission chart. During a slow moment he asked if he could step outside for a smoke. No, I myself am nowhere near that. But if it had been possible I would have liked to have been outside the lab having a ciggie while inside they were trying to find a promising vein for a blood sample. Jabbity jabbity.

Tests:
1. CBC w/Plts (No Diff) (CBCO)
2. PT, PTT, INR
3. Complete Metabolic Panel (CMP)

They didn't even bother checking if I was alive! For all they knew, I could have been suffering from COPD, with a pulsox of 0%, HR similarly at 0, and RR also 0. At which point the chart would read that the patient is dead, the patient is not living, the patient is not alive, the patient is deceased, gone to meet his maker, he has kicked the bucket and joined the choir invisible, he's pushing up the daisies, and having breathed his last he is no more, and rests in peace.

At the very least, hold a mirror up to my nose to see if I'm breathing and have a reflection.

Oh wait. My exclamation when the needle went in proved that I'm alive.
Or at least it established sensitivity and sentience.

It was hallowe'en very recently. You never know what is roaming those dark San Francisco streets looking for a blood lab. But I suppose they're more worried about hopping vampires and drug addicts. According to Fox News those are all over the downtown.

After visiting the lab I had pork siu mai (豬肉燒賣) and pan-gilded turnip cake (蘿蔔糕 'lo paak gou') a block away, then decided to take the bus up hill five blocks to my polling place. The bus took a long time to come and was rerouted, because a fallen tree had blocked the street. Did I ever mention I hate walking up hill? Bum leg. Imagine that last stretch "illuminated" by multilingual cursing (mostly in Dutch). That same bus problem still hadn't been resolved later in the evening, so there was a longer wait than usual. I wished I had brought two pipes.

Tomorrow morning's commute will be surreal for a number of people. I shan't modify my routine, as I expect that by late afternoon it will have cleared up. Lunch, smoke a pipe, shopping, teatime, another pipe.

And I will periodically gloat to myself over the election results, which can be seen as a massive finger to Trump, MAGA, and Texas. Well-deserved.



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THE FABULOUS STATE OF KENTUCKY

Kentucky ranks higher in literacy than Texas, but lower than Florida. It's also higher than the national average. Which should give you some perspective, and tell you that as a nation we're not doing so well. Frankly, Scarlet, we're hosed.


"We’re getting calls about polls being closed. They are closed because we do not have elections today. Kentucky votes next year. You cannot vote today in Kentucky for the mayor of New York City or the Governor of Virginia. Sorry."
----- Kentucky Secretary of State Michael Adams.


Many people in Kentucky actually know how to spell words on one syllable. And sometimes (not often) two. In Florida they go up to three when feeling adventurous, in Texas they usually do so in fits of braggadocio and insane over-confidence.
And when they have faith in Jesus.

They do not always have faith in Jesus.
They've heard bad things about him.
It seems he wasn't a Christian.

This is a picture of Northern California scenery. In Northern California we frequently use, and write, words of four or even five syllables. Pinot Grigio is five. Cabernet Sauvignon likewise. Sauvignon Blanc is four, Roma Wines either four or three, and bourbon doesn't exist.


Sometimes we even go up to six (Acapella Goat Cheese)!


Something makes me think that neither the future mayor of New York (two), nor the next governor of Virginia (four), is on the ballot here. It's just a suspicion.

This isn't Kentucky (three).



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GATOR, POSSUM, AND SPARKLING WINE

During the first pipe of the day, smoked while walking around Leavenworth and Jackson, three things went through my mind: the passing of Dick Cheney, Mike Johnson's love of Hallowe'en parties, and a bloodtest which is required before a peripheral angioplasty of the lower dextral appendage may proceed.

Dick Cheney will be forever remembered as a great hunter with superlative aim.

Mike Johnson wasn't invited to the great Gatsby-themed Hallowe'en party, because he's a schmendrick, but he loves the concept. The frisson of over-the-top fin du siecle decadence while millions of his fellow-southerners go hungry is almost irresistible, and he hopes he wangles an invite next year. Oh, it's magic. The acme of madcappery and festivity!
He's got a suit! Next year! Nebbech.

I'm guessing so much coke was snorted that they could have knocked out a small town in Texas. Cocaine, as you know, is a fancy import, like champagne and caviar. Poor people, like all those Southerners now not getting supplemental nutrition benefits or medical care, have to make do with trailerpark methamphetamine, and sparkling wine.
Ginger ale and bubbly apple cider for the kiddies.
It's what Jesus would do.

Sparkling wine comes from California.
So this totally works for us.
Thanks, Mike.

You know, there's a theory that Mike Johnson is closely related to himself, like so many people where he comes from. Unfortunate, but it would explain a lot.



Perhaps I should lay off people from the South. Many fine people come from there, and they honestly can't be blamed for their very tight families. America has benefitted (a lot) from associating with them, and it's honestly been very eductional.
We have learned so much.

Grits. And where would we be without grits?

Dick Cheney spent much time there.
That accounts for his aim.



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WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY NOODLES

A friend in the medical field has just returned from China, where he lectured and ate. As one does. Over cigars he detailed some of the culinaria. He particularly likes Xi'an food. Which he has had many times now. The grilled meats. The wheat products. The condimental touches.

And biang biang noodles (𰻞𰻞麵). Which are long and thick, like a sash or belt, and to the best of my knowledge (please correct me if I'm wrong) not a cult-thing elsewhere. Served in an oily chili, garlic, and cumin, sauce with additions like meat and vegs. Usually lamb, which benefits enormously from a certain spiciness to tone down gaminess. But minced pork is also commonly used. Savoury, spicy, with a tiny hint of sweetness.

Also not at all unusual are duck or chicken meat instead of four-footed animal, plus there vegetarian versions as well. The noodles are handpulled after the dough has rested for a few hours. They should be wide enough that they're nearly impossible to handle with chopsticks once cooked and served. Chili oil in the dressing is unavoidable, taken for granted, a given, an absolute indispensable sine qua non.

The other essential ingredient, I believe, is a ridiculously complex written character, of which there are over two dozen variants, only used for this noodle, only used in Shanxi, with no other utility than shop signs and menus for places that serve this, and not in most dictionaries.

Please memorize this character. It is incredible useful, and knowledge of it will qualify you as a member of the literate class among a very small number of Chinese people.
Who will be quite chuffed that you know it.

Then go show off your new-found skill at Terra Cotta Warrior, located at 2555 Judah Street, San Francisco, CA 94122. From here (Nob Hill) you take the bus down Van Ness Avenue to Civic Center, then catch the N Judah and get off at 31st, not too far from where the colonel used to live. It will take between half an hour and forty five minutes.
Their prices are quite reasonable.

By the way: there is NO acceptable pronunciation for 𰻞 in Cantonese.
I feel that this is a regrettable oversight.
Perhaps soon, though.



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TRAUMATIC FRUIT!

When I returned there was a watermelon sitting on the front steps. Seeing as it had been hallowe'en, naturally I suspect that it is filled with drugs and razor blades. Logically one must distrust random watermelons. They are suspicious. The natural environment in which one expects to find them are supermarkets, front counters, and the backs of pick-up trucks parked on street corners. Not the steps of apartment buildings in the inner city.

Best to ignore it. One intensely distrusts random fruit.

Shan't even carve it into a jack o'lantern.

Which would be a logical act.

A paranoid person would call emergency services to report elements of chaos and anarchy at this point. I am not paranoid. Within reason. That's something I'll let someone else do. So that they are on record with the authorities and might perhaps be deported by ICE during a theatrical Gestapo raid featuring Kristi Noem in tight, TIGHT, designer tactical gear, very Hollywood style, as one expects. Not me. I'm innocent.

Why is this thing threatening me?
I object!

The time shift over the weekend has affected my natural rythm. Normally I wake up a little later on my days off, but today I was up and about and answering the call of nature before the crack of dawn. It was light when I stepped out to smoke my pipe while wandering around the neighborhood. A bit coolish out there. No one outside to scowl at the whisp of fragrant flue-cured leaf fumes. Very autumnal.


Now that I think about it, there is a certain logic to placing watermelons on front steps. This is sloping terrain, if simply put down on the sidewalk it would roll down hill, and perhaps the person walking his watermelon at six o'clock in the morning wished to check text messages on his cell-phone. Or mark his territory at the lamp post. Maybe they identify as a dog?

If so, what kind of dog? In San Francisco that would very likely have to be a French bulldog. Compact, intelligent looking, space alien-like, and suitable for small urban apartments.
Even when running around with a watermelon, logic must rear its head.

Maybe the watermelon fell into their hands when they left to go on their morning run?
How and why does one leave the house with a melon?
There's something wrong here.


This is all very disturbing. Canine-identifying joggers threatening strangers with fruit.
A crisis! Call out the National Guard! We are under attack!
Unknown Venezuelans bearing produce.



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A GREY GOON STORY

When you are partly deaf, you hear some unusual things. The apartment mate is listening to a radio mystery from the late thirties, and I swear I heard it introduced with the words that form the title of this post. In addition to being a bit wanky in the ear department, I am engaged in mastication -- meatballs in a delicious greasy mushroom and hot chilipepper sauce -- and that noise also interferes. Plus I wasn't listening. So, a grey goon story.

"Waiter! Garçon! This coffee is cold!"

See, that's why you don't go to Monte Carlo in the off-season. Inattentiveness.

When people asked me today how the game was progressing I endeavored to indicate sincerely that I wasn't listening, praestations of the numeric team left me quite as cold as that cup of coffee. The succes or failure of the San Francisco balls squad shall be a sausage to me. I think they won, and many people are now drunk from giddy celebration.
Huzzah for them. They need joy in their dull and uneventful lives.

I'm sure that it was a splendid goon story.
All that red and gold spandex.
Dashing, by jove!

But as I mentioned, I had not been listening. The occasional outbursts of blue language from the senile old soiled knickers crowd in the backroom did not tell me anything, and in any case was merely white noise, background surusus.

Although I did listen up when one of them started talking about unhealthy underwear. He had read a newspaper article, and attempted to impart juicy tidbits conversationally. During the ball game. No one wants to discuss your panties at that time, dear fellow. Or, in fact, ever. Drop your panties! Pretend that you don't have your mind in your boxers. Both Haines and Fruit-of-the-loom are excellent brands. They are available in a versatile and expansive range of sizes, so if need be you can cover any body part. Including your head. Which please do.


Old joke about a German, a Dutchman, and a Belgian who sign up for the Foreign Legion. Supply sergeant asks: how many pairs of underwear? The German requests seven. Why seven? That's Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday ... Okay, that makes sense. So seven pairs. Then the Dutchman. Eight. Why eight? Well, that's seven days a week plus one extra in case there's an accident. That's logical, and forethought. Eight. The Belgian wants eleven.
That seems excessive, why eleven? Well, that's January, February, March ...


Perhaps unhealthy undies man had had too much coffee.
Or, equally likely, he's an idiot.



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THAT WILL WAKE YOU UP!

The pizza from 7-Eleven is better than the Italian place on Stratum's Eind made. It has been quite a long time since I had that, and I still remember it very unfavourably. A true New Yorker would be driven to madness by either. The wise man does NOT associate bar neighborhoods in Northern European metropoles filled with intoxicated violent yobbos with edible pizza, OR fine dining. Although there is a place there with damned good fries, krokets, bamischijven, and frikandellen. Which I remember as well as the pizza place but for different reasons.

You know what this neighborhood needs? A frietkot that's open at six in the morning.
A frikandel met scherpe mosterd would be the breakfast of champions.
Wake these people up something good.

There were such places near trainstations in parts of the Netherlands. In the past they would be filled with working men at that hour, having a hearty snack before catching the intercity and huffing dark shag cigaretts with their strong coffee afterwards.
The atmosphere was out of this world.

Commuting students would also patronize such places.
Same coffee. Same handrolled cigarettes.
A slice of heaven.

Remarkably, the Dutch aren't big on bacon and cheese bombs, although junkfood is one of their passions. That's more of an American thing, available at many tourist hotels for visiting Anglos at breakfast time. Along with packets of chocolate and sugar frosted cereal product.
Also not a Dutch thing. Sweet woodchips with milk poured over? No thanks.

I've never been much of a breakfast person.

But I could go for a frikandel right now.
With sharp mustard, and sambal.



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RABBIT RABBIT! KIM KARDASIAN

Rabbit rabbit, for good luck. Kim Kardasian, reality teevee dingbat, believes that the moon landing is fake. She is a certifiable idiot. I only know this because NASA denied her insane statement to that effect. Do you rememember where you were when Kim Kardashian outspewed her opinions about one of mankind’s greatest achievements?

I don't. She did so sometime in October. I do not watch reality teevee, and do not follow the vacuous twit, so it escaped me entirely until I saw a news blurb mentioning it.

I would walk a mile to avoid encountering a dingbat like that.
Given my job, I sometimes have little choice.
Thank you, have a nice day.
Get lost.

So today a very nice man got sick at work. About which he was extremely apologetic. My coworker and I dealt with the situation. And we shall speak no more about it.
I am not social, but I am diplomatic.


Much of the time I deal with people who have made questionable choices involving their clothing, personal grooming, and bad habits. Marin County is like that; it's ground zero for ethnic fabrics, cargo pants, and tee-shirts advertising grunge bands or cult movies.
Plus random lectures about spiritual matters.
And the divine child within.

Only rarely do I see any of those people in San Francisco, for which I am mighty glad. San Francisco is not their kind of place. We're not very spiritual. And we either strangled the child within or gave the little sh*t up for adoption. The traveling Hungarians stole it and reared it as a cannibal. It ran away and was raised by wolves. Then it joined the circus. The machine chewed it up an spat out cat food. It had the wrong aura and we ate it.

Rabbit rabbit.



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SEASONAL TREATS

When I still lived in Europe we vacationed in Switzerland every year, taking two or three days to motor through Belgium, France, and Germany to get there. When I woke up it was with keen memories of one Swiss hotel still in my head. A nice place, surrounded by hillside forest. The corner room with trees and leaf-shadow right outside the windows. And my mother's book suitcase. Naturally one reads during vacation. A lot. It's what one does.

The memories were probably spurred by remembering the books in our house back then, and considering what books a growing mind needs to create moods, mental tools, a flexible and receptive teenage intellect. Plus authors. Parents can provide the books, but just have to hope that their offspring takes the bait. Not all books suitable for children (and young adults) are suitable for children (and young adults) or appeal to them.


Teenagers are given to obsessions. I read all the Nabokov, Kipling, Somerset Maugham, and Saki I could lay my eyes on. Along with huge amounts of science fiction and rather much English language poetry. Plus Shakespeare. East Indies stuff didn't make an impact on me till much later, along with, at a different time, German and Chinese poetry.

Dutch literature was a more accidental process.
Which it largely still is.

Still haven't discovered Sylvia Plath. I suppose I should.

I kind of lost my taste for poetry somewhere along the way. Much of it is doggerel, especially the Romantics, and equally much is not as good as Jabberwocky, which is rather splendid stuff. When poetry in Dutch is good, it sings. There is an internal logic and rigour there which is remarkable, and given that each poet in that language essentially has to reinvent the tongue and bash it into shape, the result are sometimes stellar.

Whenver I go back to the Netherlands I buy books. Which I then box up and mail to myself, as I have no need to stagger through airports with too much baggage.



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THE NUMBERS ARE OUT TO GET YOU

Confusion with a little old lady who had ordered after me and another person. She was clearly hungry, and confused about the who what where and when of her rice sheet noodle snack. No harm done. I got mine. The other person got his. And she got hers. Somehow, I don't think that she was as satisfied as I was after eating. I think the counter person may have had better days.

New uncle in the kitchen seems as unclear about the numeric system as the little old lady.
As well as the exact nature and meaning of cilantro.

If a plate of food comes to the counter from the kitchen, surely it belongs to whoever sees it first? Especially if she is the ONLY senior citizen there? Mmm, no auntie.
That isn't quite how things work. I'm so sorry.
It was very good.

Two blocks later while smoking my pipe, I observed one of the local Caucasian crazies strike poses in traffic, do athletic things, and gibber. She circled the area near the bus stop several times, crossed the street, go down the block, and return to do all of it again but in a different order. I realized that if she were still there when I finished my pipe I would have to take a later bus, as I did not want to risk being the only recognizable white person there, and therefore likely to be a fellow English speaker she could lay her opinions on.

I hope the locals don't judge all of us by people like her.
Some of us are not totally out to lunch.
Only slightly odd.

Also, why do so many white folks dress in such eccentric ways? No one wants to know how artistic and Bohemian they are, and that they are distinct individuals who are exceptionally spiritual with lives far more meaningful than almost anyone.

Chinese American parents in Chinatown do not need to warn their little kiddies away from strangers. All they have to do is subtly point at Caucasians, and say "see?". The children are exposed to so many loopdiloops and artsy types it's a miracle they don't run away screaming when strangers appear. Lordy, if any of those nutballs had been around when I was growing up, I would seriously distrust regular Americans for the rest of my life.

Come to think of it, that's actually not far from the case.
Many of you are subclinically "neurotic".



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VERY MUCH LIKE KANSAS

Grey and colder than yesterday. But we have a new street; they finally finished working outside. Beautiful aesthetically pleasing black asfalt, with an elegant white stipe down the center. Truly a joy to behold. While outside with a pipe I calmly appreciated the sheer dashingness of it all. Kudos, kudos.

Two new things: sometimes gingko trees smell like vomit, and the cow killer ant has a ferociously painful sting. The cow killer ant is actually a parasitic vespid (dasymutilla occidentalis), strikingly hued, that doesn't occur in California. I have never seen one.
San Francisco is not their native habitat.

Both of these tidbits were brought to me by social media.
See, it's not just doomscrolling or snark.

At some point I will do an illustration of the cow killer ant for the bug folder.


In other news, my apartment mate, who was rage-filled and despondent over the complete clown show at Kentucky Fried Chicken the other day -- it 's been recently remodelled and is now inefficently laid-out, only two employees on duty, one of them demented and possibly an ex-con, the other crazed and entirely out of it -- finally did get herself some fried bird. Life is good, again. Savage joy. Greasy salty crunchy. A woman needs her fried chicken or things will go very wrong in this world. Dang. You all dodged a bullet big time.

It's a female thing. In the past she'd get those insane fried chicken cravings in the week before the menses, but that's not part of the programme anymore, so I doubt that a biological imperative was actually what drove that. Probably just a woman's food-spurred insanity.
We men don't have that. Ever. We're considerably more normal.

Speaking of food, today I'll very probably go get myself some cheung fan down on Stockton Street. Sometimes a man needs his cheung fan. Soft rice sheet noodle folded over pork and cilantro, to which if I add chili oil, Sriracha, and peanut sauce, it makes the irritation of the world and all those tourists lumbering around just disappear. Magic. Heaven. To die for.
People who don't love cheung fan might be defective. Seriously.
Cheung fan are what life is all about.

During work days over in Marin, I do not have access to cheung fan. Which proves that it's culturally and culinarily worse than Siberia. A steaming putrid slice of horrid Midwestern values undeservedly plonked into civilization. Consumerite strip mall territory.
I cannot understand what is wrong with them. They might be heretics.
Damned hot tub sodden pot-smoking degenerates.


No cheung fan! The horror, the horror.



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DID SOMEONE BABBLE AND SQUAWK?

They eventually agreed that broccoli (西蘭花 'sai laan faa') was a great and universal good. After debating yellow, versus crisp green, dark green, soft spots, avocado, lotus root (蓮藕 'lin ngau'), unnaturally blackened vegetables. It was circular. Both in English and Toisanwaa. Meanwhile, at another table, some gentleman was talking unintelligibly, for all the world like he had his mouth full, even though there was nothing in it. What on earth was that dialect? Standard Cantonese at one table over. Fatty (肥仔 'fei jai') came in -- speaks Mandarin understands Cantonese), by his presence adding to the linguistic mayhem.
Good lord, I am surrounded by Chinese Yorkshiremen.


Lotus root (蓮藕) can be eaten raw or cooked. It is sweetish and crisp. Slightly mealy. It is supposed to make you happy. It goes well with pork. So naturally it makes you happy.

Candied lotus root is easy to make. Peel and slice into discs. Steep in acidulated (generous squeeze lemon juice) water, then simmer in thick sugar syrup (again, a generous squeeze of lemon juice) for about forty minutes. Take out and drain, then dust with powdered sugar and store in a glass jar. Note that fresh ginger added to the syrup is a splendid idea, and one drop of red food colouring is an artistic touch.

One could do the same to broccoli, I suppose, but reactions to this might be askew.
I've done this with lotus root. Never with cruciferous vegetables.
If you decide to do so, let me know how it is.

Syrup-cooked cabbage, probably with lots of vinegar in the sugar solution, sounds dreadfully English. Perhaps with mustard, turmeric, and cayenne added. A traditional pickle served with beloved dishes like Boiled Horsheads, Lambs Teapot, and Badger in the Woods.
Or whatever those things are called. Good with Bubbling Betsy.
Beer battered turnips.


Yorkshire is a very strange place, for sure.
Even if populated by Cantonese.



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A GIRAFFE AND A BANANA

Our president has taken another cogitive test to prove that he isn't senile as all git out and rapidly decomposing with late stage dementia. The doctors are amazed, they've never seen anything like it. It's fabulous! It's huge! Nurses screamed in joy as the starkers fool correctly identified a giraffe as a giraffe. A steampowered giraffe! Banana for scale.

To cross this aircraft carrier you must first answer me these questions three ere the other side you see.


Back in June, as part of my yearly check-up, I correctly remembered banana, sunrise, chair after ten or so minutes. So I'm presidential material. You've never seen anything like it.


They should have asked him his name and favourite colour too.

Fox News, of course, is claiming this as a moral victory. As are the department of homeland security and health and human services. After all, Osama Bin Laden can't remember those three things, OR recognize a giraffe (true). And unlike Trump, Zohran Mamdani calls every female relative or member of his social group, even random giraffes, an auntie.

MAGA of course goes into fits of ecstatic adulation everytime Trump has another brainfart, of course. This gave them a true 'come to Jayzus' orgasm it was so brilliant! The stupendosity of it! They've never been able to recognize a giraffe! There are no giraffes in the red states! Them lousy democrats wouldn't allow it!

There is no giraffe in this picture. Because I haven't seen a giraffe in oh like forever. Giraffe's, unlike monkeys or bears, never break out of the zoo and mingle with us common folk in city parks damned snobs. They think they're better than us.

It's my constitutional right to see a giraffe.


Three things to remember. This is a ballroom. That is a Japanese Prime Minister. Giraffe.


If I'm elected president, there will be giraffes everywhere.
The price of giraffes will go down 1000% percent.
Giraffes for every Christian in this country!


My two boys eat over twenty bananas each week, tell you what.
AOC and Jasmine Crockett couldn't do that!
Because they're black.


Giraffe!



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