Wednesday, November 06, 2024

WHERE SYPHILIS AND ADDERAL REIGN

There are large parts of the United States of America where people are traitorous narrow minded xenophobic cretins and ignoramuses. Places where you do not want to go.
Where the food is mediocre and leads to obesity, sloth, and brain rot.

As you might be aware, I have borrowed a term from Trump to name these places.

The Shithole States.

Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa, Louisiana, Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, West Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

Junkfood, shitty beer, and lead poisoning.

Amoral, and ethically crippled.

Spitefilled and deranged.



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SENSELESS ACTS

The good news is that we won't have to worry about presidential visits for the next four years. No motorcades, goons with sunglasses, helicopters overhead, closed off areas, inconveniently rerouted traffic.
Also good news: the states most likely to need FEMA will be out of luck next time. And deservedly so. Sometime tomorrow I will be updating my list of garbage states.

Also, with RFK Jr. making decisions about medical matters, the next pandemic should be a real doozy, and more people will die of preventably diseases than ever before, mostly in the red states. I'm not sure if that's good news or not. Still haven't decided. It might just be the silver lining we need.

While smoking my pipe in C'town this evening I noticed that there were fewer people around than usual, despite the balmy weather. They seemed quieter also. Even the tourists. After the burger, bar A and bar B, where I drank tea because even in the darkest hours I abstain from alcohol nowadays -- it might interact with something I'm taking -- there seemed even fewer people out, but they were considerably drunker than normal. Tomorrow should be an interesting day.

Well, as long as that deranged fundy wingnut Ellen Lee Zhou isn't the next mayor of San Francisco, I'm happy. We need a liberal in charge of this town.
Not some batty rightwing psycho.
The pipe was good. Red Virginias with a smidge of Perique. Seemed suitable for a pleasant evening near Jackson Street, where the hip jugend torched a driverless taxi at the beginning of the year. After the fact it was described as an act of defiance.
Resistance against "the man", man.
Down with the Borg.

The flood of expensive multi-colour printed landfill material which had been coming in for three solid months has ended; the only thing in my box yesterday was a grocery flyer.
Today I received the 2025 Social Security handbook.
Discussing Medicare Part A and B.

Quiet has returned.



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Tuesday, November 05, 2024

IT'S BEIGE!

Years ago on a brief visit to England before heading over to the continent, I got both acid indigestion and blockage at the same time. So when, a few months ago, American people on the internet were reacting with outraged arrogance over English Chinese food, I could sort of understand. They were imagining having to hurry to Walgreens on the double to visit the long aisle with all the American patent remedies for indigestion, constipation, acid reflux, gastric distress and upset, and similar problems. Because Americans really eat very much like the British, except with more electric colouring matter. English Chinese food is beige, American Chinese food is shocking pink, neon orange, brilliant lavender, and blood red. Or mahogany.
And instead of curry sauce on everything, it's either sweet and sour sauce, or General Tzo's. Sometimes it's duck sauce, which is something only found in New York.
To expand the repertoire, add sesame seeds.

If you were to take a slice of New York or Chicago Pizza, chop it into strips, substitute sweet and sour sauce for tomato sauce, and call it "crusty Peking nuggets", the average American wouldn't blink an eye. Add mild curry sauce, and you could serve it to an Englishman.

Deep fry it; it's now "Manchurian tidbit".
Fried rice, chicken balls in sweet and sour sauce, salt and chili fries, almost no vegetables, and everything jumbled together on the plate with "curry" sauce on top. Plus shrimp chips.

It's just as "authentic" as broccoli beef, chicken chow mein, and kung pao.

Lunch today will be at a chachanteng (茶餐廳). Might have spaghetti with a porkchop and melted cheese. Might have something curried. Or I could ask for fried rice or Swiss wings.
It's all good with sambal. And a cup of milk tea.
They also have ice cream there.



That's what English Chinese food needs!
Lots of melted cheese on top!
It's brilliant!



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Monday, November 04, 2024

LOOKS LIKE VICTORY

While heading toward my apartment building I saw and heard a crow happily cawing on the high pole halfway up the block. It seemed postscient. Earlier on the bus an elderly Caucasian female had, for no discernible reason, picked a fight with a Chinese woman and threatened her with her walker while loudly cursing. The Chinese woman, while smaller, was ready to ramp it up to whatever degree necessary, of which I would've approved if it got that far.
The white woman had earlier shown that a few crucial screws were loose.
It had been a loud and interesting bus ride.
Quite educational.

Earlier, while lighting my pipe, I had nearly fallen over four quarrelling unwashed Caucasian nutballs after leaving the place where I had eaten breakfast. Normally I don't have breakfast, and when I do it's rarely right in Chinatown. Two cups of coffee and a pipeful while taking an early walk are enough. But I'd had an early appointment at the eye-doctor's (眼科博士,眼科手術專家 'ngaan fo bok si, ngaan fo sau suet juen gaa') -- the incipient glaucoma in the left eye is marginally worse, and I now need to use latanoprost in the right eye also -- and the place where I went does breakfast till eleven o'clock.
So I seized the opportunity.
One table over four women were having a gabfest while noshing. I've seen them there before. City Canto, though one of them has a somewhat more Northern accent. A few other patrons were examing their cell-phones while eating, a Mandarin speaking couple were having fried noodles, and a few early tourists didn't have a clue what to get.

Perhaps you should order pork liver and lean meat congee, a fried dough stick, and a cup of milk tea (豬肝瘦肉粥,一根油條,同一杯熱奶茶 'chyü gon sau yiuk juk, yat gan yau tiu, tong yat pui yit naai chaa'). Trust me on this, it's what the intelligent kwailo wants. Me.

It's right there on the menu, boys. Go ahead.

Fortunately, glaucoma (青光眼 'ching gwong ngaan') is so slow that with delaying tactics like latanoprost I should be able to look people straight in the face when I finally die of a heart attack thirty or forty years hence. Because that's what everyone needs, right?
The steely glare of a dead man at the end of his life.

The trick will be timing it just right.

I need to work on that.



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IT'S A FACT

Sometimes, before the coffee has hit the medula oblongata, the mind wanders in an odd direction. Not for me, of course, as I am a very normal sane and stable sort. But this morning my apartment mate had a bee in her bonnet while waking up after I returned from my morning walk. And sought reassurance.


"No, I think I would have noticed if there were a corpse on the front steps. I'm fairly certain of that."


Because we live in San Francisco, that might be a thing.
According to the internet it definitely is.

If you watch Fox News, you are undoubtedly convinced that there are corpses lying about all over the city, including our front steps. And that they are here illegally, for voting purposes.
They know that for an absolute fact.
Fox News is responsible for more rancid horsepucky than almost any other organization in the entertainment field. People in the red states suck it up. And consequently know, KNOW, that San Francisco is filled with drug addicted foreign witchcraft practicing transgenders who are demising amidst excrement all over the downtown, actively doomlooping.

My apartment mate does not watch Fox News.
I wonder where she got the idea.

It would be hard to miss.
Trust me.



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Sunday, November 03, 2024

DARK SHADOWS

Lunch, because it was in Marin, where decent eating is a disruptive concept, was pretty darn mediocre. Only barely helped by hot sauce. Shortly after that I accidentally overturned the bucket of dog treats and had to pick them up, in consequence of which my fingers smelled like carrion. Dogs, I like. Their gustatory tastes, not so much.

One of the dogs has pegged me as the source of cookies, as well as a soft touch. Having given in several times already I tried staying out of sight of those soulful trusting eyes.
It was painful.

I miss the little dachshund who always regarded me with suspicion.
There seemed to be more of an intellectual challenge there.
Would he take the biscuit? Or hide under the chair?

I am always surprised when unpleasant old men have rather nice dogs. It's almost like the hound is the more human one of the two. Also, dogs seldom spout unprintable and unpalatable political nonsense.
When I return to work in a few days, I fully expect unseemly statements, and reports of natural disasters in consequence of democrats controlling the weather to keep richly deserving rotten pumpkins out of power. Plus wild accusations of evil conspiracies, and microchips. The judicial member in particular seems to be losing it.
Today he whined about Soros and liberal child killers.
Quite the gibbering monkey.


He is also fearfully worried about the future.
I applaud his paranoia. It is deserved.
And I intend to encourage it.



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SPLASH

All over South Asia memos are being circulated reminding the call staff that the Gauras are awake an hour later, do not call about Medicare Part A and B yet, or pretend to be Steve from you neighborhood airduct centre, Marjorie from Debt Advisors, the helpful man from the IRS who needs you to purchase an Amazon or Target gift card.

And Rajesh, Vinod, Prakash, or who ever it is, mentally files this as just one more goofy thing about the Americans whose bank accounts and social security numbers they wish to steal.

They resolve to have another samosa or jalebi in the meantime, and do a three dimensional crossword puzzle. Is there some more chai? Can't outsmart those folks without chai.
The Gaura-log don't have chai.
Secret desi weapon.


Depite not having chai to help me wake up, that extra hour of sleep helped.
I've loaded a short pipe, and will go out for a little bit.
Tobacco will complete the process.
It's already glimmering light in the Western sky, not particularly cold.

My apartment mate is in the kitchen preparing herself a morning wake-up. She had retired to her room early after a busy day, rather than staying up late because of the time change, and is, consequently, out of bed sooner than usual on a Sunday. If you go by the clock. In real terms, it's the same time. There will be some adjustment necessary.

Evidence indicates that she's already fully alert.
Doesn't need as much caffeine as I do.
Faster metabolism.


A walk around the block while smoking will do me good.
Less grumpy, and younger, when I return.



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Saturday, November 02, 2024

A MORE INNOCENT AGE.

The last time I crossed an ocean, you could still smoke in many public places and disport yourself with cigarettes, cocktails, and loose people of a suitable gender. Haven't been able to do that in years here. Loose people of several genders abound, but you wouldn't like them. Cocktails now contain curated ingredients and cost sheer buckets because they are carefully constructed using only the finest craft-made ingredients instead of five dollar Bourbon, and smoking in a business establishement will get you blamed for killing the whales, ruining the enviroment, what about my lungs you pig, discrimanation of all kinds, eating gluten, get out.

And let us not forget about kittens.

Smoking is horrifying to felines.

Gives 'em childhood trauma.


I don't miss the cocktails or the disportation. Bourbon, gin, or vodka, with a drop or two of of vermouth, stirred and never shaken, with an apropriate garnish next to a cafe ashtray, looks fine, goes well with Diamond brand Lotus Cigarettes (鑽石牌荷花香煙 'juen sek paai ho faa heung yin') made in Hebei (河北 'ho paak'), OR a Dunhill Shellbriar filled with a fine Virginia flake such as used to be put out by McClelland in Kansas City (which ceased operations in 2018). Or something from Samuel Gawith or Fribourg & Treyer. But a cup of tea is fine.
And civilized people do not imbibe before late afternoon at the earliest.

I've got the Lotus cigarettes, as well as a number of Dunhill Shellbriars, and several tins of Virginia. But an indoor public place of disportation which still has cafe ashtrays and doesn't throw kittens at one for smoking around other people is hard to find anywhere nowadays.
Let's not even think of karaoke joints in foreign locales. Smoke filled yes. Lousy cocktails, and singing whales. Plus patrons whose personal ethics and morals are more than a little dubious. I'd rather have the flung kittens.


Precisely the kind of place where one might find a sleazoid pretentious git with a poncy accent about to start a rumble.


Say, what brand of cigarette does James Bond smoke anyway? Seeing as the Brits have gone to the dogs there probably aren't any decent fags from England anymore.
The poor bastard is probably huffing cheap knock-offs.
Poor show, old chap.



I still have a few packs of Belomorkanal somewhere.
They would probably go well with a martini.
While listening to Hotel California.
Sung off-key by a yuppie.



For some reason, I keep thinking of parsnips. I blame karaoke for that.
And yuppies.




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Friday, November 01, 2024

RABBIT, RABBIT.

Rabbit, rabbit. It is traditional to say "rabbit rabbit" first thing in the morning on the first day of the month. Good luck or something. Don't know. Rabbit rabbit.


Quite likely a friend will post a drawing of a rabbit having coffee.
Two other friends have rabbits as pets. So photos.
My monthly rabbits smoke pipes.






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Thursday, October 31, 2024

BUT IT IS A PIPE!

On Halloween, people dress up as their favourite literary figures or celebrities, so that for one day they can bask in the idea that they might be similar. Albert Einstein, Steve Fallon, Gerald Ford, Clark Gable, Sir Bertrand Russell, Georges Simenon, J.R.R. Tolkien, Mark Twain, or Prince Bernhard von Lippe Biesterfeld, for instance. As pipesmokers.

The facial prop speaks to people. One of my friends years ago sported a stogie and went out as Groucho Marx, to whom he bears great resemblance even though he hates ducks.

So the bright young man or woman goes out to purchases a pipe. And selects one that feels comfortable in the hand as well as the eyes, because ideally two or three years later he or she will hold it at arms length and say to him or herself "I'm glad I bought this", rather than "what the hell was I thinking?"

The next step is a tamper, with pipe cleaners and some matches.

As well as some tobacco.
Generally speaking there are four categories of pipe tobacco. The largest, between eighty to ninety percent of the market, is aromatic. This is the kind of shite that all hobbit wannabees smoke, as well as Gandalf, plus several notorious old pederasts. Very popular. Chemicals and artifical flavourings that smoke hot and leave your pipe wet. What everybody's grand father allegedly smoked (but only during family get togethers, because the old fellow wanted to sit indoors at Thanksgiving and Christmas rather than out by the compost heap in the freezing cold).

Next are English mixtures, what the dashing young man at Harvard or Yale who turored bright young things in algebra or Latin prefered. Tutoring paid for his tweeds and tea time pastries, plus some sherry now and then, and expanded his dating pool enormously. These reek of terpeneols because one of the main blending tobaccos (Latakia) is a smoke-cured leaf from the Levant. Clark Gable and William Faulkner liked those.

Tolkien smoked flakes, which are blends of Virginia with a smidge of "other", steampressed to unify the flavours and mellow them. They smell noticeably of carotenoids -- flavour, aroma, and colour compounds that occur naturally, especially in grasses and stone fruits such as peaches, apricots, and plums, as well as Virginia tobaccos -- and are gently satisfying if smoked on the cusp of going out. Do NOT smoke too fast. Calm down.

Third category: old grandad wearing his bib overalls out on the tractor doing the back forty. Everybody hopes he'll croak soon because he's a mean old cuss. He's puffing a Burley dominant blend, like many people did back before the war, because Burley was cheap.
Many old coots such as myself intellectually love products like Bailey's Front Porch or The Haunted Bookshop, but if you poke us we'll admit that we're having a hard time finishing the tin we opened eight years ago because it kicks us in the jaw. Every time. Wonderful stuff. Gerald Ford and Mark Twain smoked similar blends.
So did Einstein.


Steve Fallon. Georges Simenon, and Prince Bernard von Lippe Biesterfeld, are aficionados of Royal Yacht, which is an anomaly. Technically a Virginia blend, with a very minor amount of darker leaf, but spritzed with benzyl butyrate (plum flavour chemical), and perhaps a trace amount of tonquin to alleviate the sense of strength. The benzyl butyrate would disguise that. My experience with it is that it's smooth and flavoursome, though slightly mono dimensional. And it wallops me. Two bowls and I'm done.


On a final note, Virginia blends and flakes are stealth tobaccos that you can smoke late at night without most other members of the household noticing after they're asleep.



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IT STARTS WITH CAFFEINE

Mordechai kvells that because he is a coffee maven, his friends, relatives, and fellow citizens gift him with beans. He likes the stuff his bashert and son give him best. He is so lucky! As a pipe smoker, the equivalent is random unstable people giving me samples of blends that will assuredly change my life. Mango papaya sunrise. Vanilla custard caramel pumpkin spice; it's seasonally appropriate till February! Dead Skunk Perique Overload, from the Peoria Pipe Guild. Or, more polite, Midpa Sommar (Mafārǝk Chāgāy) from the Svendborg's Pippen Klubbe up near the arctic circle. It is unique and subtly topped with elderberries.

Oh joy. My cup runneth over.

Mm, yes.

It is the thought that counts, and they think that a whiff of urinal cake will make me more socially acceptable, why, it will revolutionize my life. Much like Hello Kitty aftershave did for them. People might start inviting me to parties! They threw a suprise party for my birthday two weeks ago but didn't invite me because of the odour of aged Virginias.
Perhaps next year.

Lord knows I appreciate the thought.
It is good that they think.
Exceedingly so.
榕樹

Per an advertisement that appeared on my computer I am supposed to find my Fall Vibe. Not sure what that means. Dead leaves? Dead bugs? Go south before winter? Listen to enka ballads while wearing a t-shirt with something in hiragana or a print by Hiroshige?

My Fall Vibe remains the same as my Summer Vibe, and my Spring and Winter Vibe.
Like my pipe tobacco it requires no drastic change.


I do like certain smells -- freshly baked pastries, ginger wafting from the stew pot, chopped scallion, orange zest, et mult altres -- but like perfume in a woman's hair I do not think them nice splashed on by the concentrate bucket in my pipe tobacco or my zesty cup of tea.
I am not Starbucks, I have no fruity vulgarities.



Parties? What parties? I do not need any parties to celebrate my birthday, halloween, Guy Fawkes Day, Thanksgiving, St. Nicholas Day, Christmas, New Years, Valentine's Day, the Spring Festival, or any other such. Neither do you, you pot-smoking heathens. I'll just be sitting in the shade at the centre of the village with all the foreign merchants, mendicants, and money lenders, spitting crimson betel juices and smoking my pipe.

Oh crap, is that the reek of pumpkin spice?
Heathens! Pot smoking heathens!



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THE TREE OF WISDOM

Everyone knows that ghosts, djins, and the feral ancestors live in the banyan trees. Which is why you see sticks of incense burning below, stuck in hollows in the roots. And why some birds avoid roosting there. Cats and goats remarkably appreciate the shelter during the rains. And old codgers with their cheroots or bamboo pipes gather underneath, discussing the affairs of the community and which young man's testicular fevers make him socially unbearable he really should find a wife.

If you can find Yorkshire men anywhere in South East Asia, it is there, going 'ooh aargh' and sounding otherwise unintelligible, muttering darkly about kids these days. Their odd utterances and pungent smells do not disturb the owls that sleep in crevices.

In the modern Cantonese villages of the western American urban areas, the role of banyan tree is occupied by the bakery-coffee shop, where at back tables the old fossils and retired country folk make unique statements and discuss matters of the world.


"Ooh aargh!"


Sometimes I do not settle anywhere for a cup of milk tea in the afternoon and a pastry in Chinatown. I do not feel old enough, and listening to Yorkshirese might not particularly appeal to me that day.
It rained last night. Imagine sitting under a banyan, in a spot where the water does not penetrate, near the trunk, below thick branches and dense leaves.

You just muttered "ooh aargh". I heard it!

Ooh aargh to you good sir.

Wisdom.



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Wednesday, October 30, 2024

WETNESS

Rain has entered the forecast, there is a prospect of precipitation ahead. Either late tonight or tomorrow sometime. Though it probably won't amount to much, it is colder. Earlier an old woman had told that it was quite warm. I suspect that the white flower lotion she had rubbed all over herself fooled her senses. Frankly, I was freezing when I smoked my pipe after lunch (which was mediocre). A cold blast of arctic air, oh woe is me that pipe aficionados have to shiver outdoors while vegan anti-smoking communists rejoice in comforting warmth inside.

Woe! Woe!

Anyhow, got my shopping done, and hastened back home. I didn't feel like any of the usual places for tea. Instead I put the pot on the stove and fixed myself a strong cuppa Ceylon, which I took with me into the outside stairwell to drink with a pipe.

It's over thirty degrees Fahrenheit warmer in Hong Kong and Singapore. Which is actually too hot, but that sounds rather nice to me in this frigid wasteland, with frozen penguins and walruses everywhere, their unrotting carcasses litter the far horizon, ice-block solid till Spring, whereupon either they will pong to high heaven or the street people will feast, and politicians will be outraged that the city allowed this to happen, vote for me, we must do something about this! Common sense! Stop the waste!
A double bagger with sliced fresh ginger added. Warms the tired old bones.


It's probably time for a nap now.



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INTERPRETIVE DANCE

Now that the weather is cooler, there are fewer naked people roaming the streets. Heat and illegal substances, as you know, are major causes of nudity. Not being enamoured of illegal substances, the only times when I am naked of which I am aware are around bath time inside my apartment. And I am reasonably sure there have not been other incidents.

At times I wonder at my fellow citizens wandering around the city.
Are they aware that the entire kitchen sink is showing?


Proper clothing is a reppressive imperialist construct invented by the patriarchy to limit the free expression of the ruled classes and impose an exploitative capitalist order on society.

In a world of prickleburs and sharp thorny things, it takes guts and glory to tempt scratchy mishaps and cuts in inconvenient places. Show your cojones by defying nature. Be free!


As a slave to convention myself, I would rather you didn't show them.
Or any other squidgy bits.
It's good to be protected from the elements, but apparently it takes sentience, ego, and a degree of not being under the influence of regrettably legal substances or quite possibly highly illegal chemicals to maintain that.

Free spirit dancing while besotted is regrettably common.
And conflicts at times with dog leavings.

Perhaps you should have worn flip-flops?
As a practical consideration.
At the least.



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Tuesday, October 29, 2024

DIFFERENT AND QUIET

It was short. The first place where we went after the burger was closing early for electrical work, the second was filled with yutzes. So we headed to the third, which has actually been our first drinking hole more often than not for a few months now. A birthday party, too full.
The fourth place was closed. So this was a pub crawl that wasn't.
I didn't get to pull a single tea bag from my pocket.
So I am, sadly, not wired to the gills.
Distinctly unhepped.


I did enjoy a good smoke, though. That Sardinian briar is singing. And now that the weather has turned colder, my legs feel a lot better than they have for much of the past two months.


Looking forward to getting out of the house early tomorrow.
Lunch, grocery shopping, a bit of spazieren.
And contemplating evil.
On the way down to C'town I ran into the chicken-sexer, looking older and more Gandalf-like than ever. We chatted a bit and I wished him a belated shana tova. On the way back home on the bus I half-listened to a middle-aged white woman explaining Chinese characters to her companion, speaking with a cadence that sticks in the ear, and might cause madness eventually. She said some interesting things, and knew the radicals. At one point I saw her "air-writing" the words -- we all do that, it helps mentally picture characters and recognize stroke order -- before launching into something about water buffalos (水牛 'seui ngau').

The bookseller probably also heard her, and likely was happy that I didn't jump in.
But it's never a good idea to rain on a stranger's parade.
Especially not in this town.


There are, in fact, three alternative places we could have gone. One of them has a mental person behind the bar, another is known for very drunken Caucasians, and the third one is where the decent gangsterish Toishanese now hang out.
Nice guys. But a bit rowdy.



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THE SWEETNESS

With only one week left before the election, it's time to stop worrying, tell the Hindustani who blind-called me from "Diabetic Center" that he's out of his mind in Cantonese (你係傻嘅 'nei jan hai soh ge') so that he hangs up sadly realizing that his Spam will go nowhere, and think about lunch. Yesterday's lunch was excellent; northern style little pork and pickled vegetable dumplings (豬肉酸菜餃). Apparently my Mandarin, though sucky, is intelligible within context. The counter lady did not speak Cantonese.

In all honesty I haven't a clue how I ended up on Indian Spam call lists. Must have something to do with age. Michael was bally certain I had diabetes, but, because I did not speak a word of English, we did not have a chance to discuss it. I am convinced that if I actually had diabetes I would have found out ages before some ethically crippled conman from Secunderabad or Gandkipoojahpore called me.

He would have better luck talking to his office mates. Most Indians, with their taste for overly sweet laddoos and sugar-laden ghee bombs are well in line for diabetes by age thirty, and the pudgy spoiled brat sons of middle-class families often have it by the time they graduate from grammar school.
Remarkably, none of the Indians I know presently is rotund. Years ago I knew many more Indians, because of employment part-time at a restaurant, and most of them weren't obese either, but they had relatives who needed to take the freight elevator up to the cheesecake factory on the fifth floor. Indian ambulances, as I understand it, are often very cramped.

Don't talk to me about diabetes, tum murke baifkoof. Call your aunties instead.

And stop adding sugar to your masala chai.
It's unbearably sweet already.



No, lunch is not going to be Indian food. I like it, but for some reason I think I'll head over to Chinatown instead. Something over rice at a chachanteng, hot cup of Hong Kong milk tea, then fill up a pipe and have a quiet smoke afterwards.




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Monday, October 28, 2024

SOMETHING SINISTER

In the middle of creating a painting of a water monitor (a large South East Asian lizard), my apartment mate hollered joyously "I ain't evah gonna stop shooting gators!" It turns out she was watching "The Alligator People". A movie made in 1959, and a monument of its genre. Sort of Gothic Southern Mutant Horror. Mixed with classic drive-in theatre stinkeroo.
About a serum that regenerates limbs but turns the patient reptilian.

Some movies have classic lines. Hump, what hump? I don't know nuttin' about birthin' no babies! To reach her arms I would sell my people into Mongol bondage! It's alive, alive!
Do you know what happens to a toad when it's struck by lightning?
And what the hell is that smell?
Another shrubbery!


The water monitor is all over the place in the zone where it is native. Including urban parks and nullahs. It is invasive in the Deep South. They are carnivorous and will also eat carrion, competing with some humans for roadkill. There are venom glands in the mouth of the beast, but these are not particularly significant. Their bites are not fatal, unless you're a frog or small animal, and they can be domesticated. They do not fear humans, nor are they a threat. They can be surprisingly affectionate, but it is wise to wear thick protective gloves and long pants at the least, because playful bites may require lots of stiches.
They like water. So close the bathroom door when you're showering or soaking. Unless you like visitors. If your kamar mandi houses frogs (sejenis kodok, katak), you must know that these are tasty snacks.

Like all reptiles, they can be stubborn.
Drop that chihuahua right now!
Doesn't listen.



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ANGRY WHITE WOMEN

The first thing I do after my apartment mate has left for the day is firmly shut her bedroom door and open a window, so that I can smoke. She dislikes the smell, but unlike Caucasians does not have that severely entitled disapproval of things that would turn her into a harpy at the slightest. And the key thing is that both of us are quite comfortable living like this. We're hospitable to the other person's peculiarities. Supportive even. I supect a white person would lecture me about how two or three of my habits are ruining the planet and going to kil me, for whatever imagined reason.


"Stop eating so much chilipaste, it's cultural approriative and tortures little kittens. You should add butterflies to your food instead. And perform appreciative spiritual gestures while cooking, like the Wahaku do."


Liking hot food and smoking a pipe are, of course, known signs of a colonialist mindset.
Signs that one hates kittens, butterflies, and children.
Engages in rain-forest destruction.
A gluten eater!
Regarding tobacco, Anglo women fall into three categories, the largest of which know for a fact that it requires slave labour in the salt mines of Ganymede, gives children ulcers, and ruins the planet. There's a vast floating waste raft out in the ocean composed of discarded tobacco products that kills penguins and harp seals, like the Canadians, and I'm contributing to that! Somebody should do something! Unleash the Greta Thunberg! Forthwith! Storm the barricades! Howl, and hold a concert to raise awareness!

The second category just loves the aroma. Rancid vanillin reminds them of grampa, and Gandalf, and precious little hobbits.

The third believes that tobacco is an offering to the ancestors of peaceful natives who were spiritual, in touch with the earth, and sincerely practiced art while dancing around carefully craft-constructed altars where the best fruits of the Autumn season were worshipfully offered; we should thank those natives for their wisdom and insight. And oppose imperialism in all it's forms, evil white male!


There is a small minority, almost insignificantly miniscule, that differs from all the above and has little inclination to imitate them. Han Chinese. They have relatives that smoke, or know people who do. A few of them also indulge. But because they don't roam the world in vast herds screaming imprecatives, no one really notices them.

[Except to complain about their frightful habits, like stir-frying (penguin slave labour) and silk making, which sexually exploits bombyx mori. Or caligraphy, which drives you insane and is a form of boogah-boogah mind control.]


You know, almost everything I do is bad, and destructive to the planet. Later on today I will probably do some laundry, which kills shrimp in the tidal estuaries and innocent tribals in the Amazon, after which I'll probably go out for a bite to eat, impoverishing tidal shrimp and Amazonian tribes, followed by enjoying a bowl of tobacco and some milk tea.
Both of which are horribly traumatizing for shrimp and tribals.



At the present, I am drinking my second cup of coffee, which may or may not come from ethically sourced beans -- which does not detract even one iota from the enjoyment, so it's immaterial -- and smoking a bowl of Fribourg & Treyer Cut Blended Plug (fine long pressed Virginia flakes made of tobacco mostly sourced from Africa, made in Denmark, and imported by Laudisi I think). Doing this is torturing a kitten or butterfly several blocks over, probably.
And traumatizing an angry white woman.
My piles bleed for them.



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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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