A TIGHT SHIP

Over a dozen years ago a fellow member of a grass roots organization was convinced that President Obama was going to take his guns. And everyone else's. And kept posting frantic doomscreeds containing that message to the common e-mail list. He was a seventy year old succesful lawyer and had seen things. Other members of the list, many not as intelligent as myself, kept chastising me whenever I brought up how completely batshit bonkers he was. Who the hell did I think I was? Huh! And how frikkin' dare I?
Naturally after a few months of that I quit.

On another list which was only semi-active, because it did not included 'Paranoia Bob', one of the members (also a lawyer) two months later asked me why I wasn't dead yet, dammit.


I am a sensitive man. So I've avoided nearly everyone in that group, and many lawyers, in the intervening years. Life is too short to have one's social life invaded by the plague.
Also, I strongly suspect that a large number of them voted for Trump.
They can go and insert things into their orifices.


In the same vein, I am glad that almost none of the people I encounter at work live or work in San Francisco, but infest Marin County. So on my off-days I will not encounter them.
The folks I associate with voluntarily are better than that.

Unremarkably, all of the doctors who sometimes are at my work place are likable tolerant individuals with senses of humour, and only one of them is on thin ice mentally. Not worryingly so, but he does spend too much time with the elderly batshit brigade.
That may be the reason why he has bottles in his locker.


Not a single doctor there thinks RFK Jr. is worth the cost of his business cards.
Same goes for many of this administration's appointees.
As well as the dunces to whom they report.


I am not suprised that this country is going to the dogs.



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THE UNCLEAR SKY

Pluto is considerably stranger than we had thought. And has a few of the building blocks of life. This being only a minute fraction of what I learned on the internet today, along with Pete Hegseth obfuscating how bad things are for our sailors, China's highspeed rail system that makes the United States look like a rinky tink third world compost heap, and the sheer precision of the Texas A & M band, which is actually kind of spectacular.

Waking up after a night out slurping hot tea and smoking a pipe (filled with aged red Virginia and a slight addition of Izmir leaf) is a gradual process. Drifting fog clearing up, random logs in porticos slowly revealing their human form, and people walking their space alien pugs for the first poo of the day, one of many more.

You know, you could have picked a better child substitute than that.
It looks and acts like an evil goblin, but far less likable.
Not surprised it matches your yuppie lifestyle.
It is quite nasty at both ends.


If I were to win the lottery, more rooms to live in would be in order, with lots of shelves so that I could organize my madness. I figure I'll need at least three more chambers to properly shelve the books. And the pottery. Of which there is too much and not enough.
Which also requires abundant book shelf space.

Good lord, there is ceramic in every direction. One of those icky little pug-nosed monsters would be an absolute disaster here. Wether dog or human. And a cat would delight in pushing everything off surfaces.

The peculiar Dutch American codger is fortunate that the person who shares the apartment is graceful and understands the sheer value of not knocking things over, despite stacking the dishes in the rack in such a way that occasional chipping may occur, though it is rare.
Also that neither person worries neurotically about it.
Both of us are very unclumsy.


The sad thing about San Francisco is that there is never enough space.
There are too many other people here, who should leave.
Also, they're breathing our air.



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IT'S JUST THE HUMIDITY

The weather these past few days has been cold (high fifties to low sixties), so it's been quite enjoyable. Naturally I function better at the lower end of the scale, so I've actually felt healthy again. This isn't Miami. Where despite the zesty Latin atmosphere and jiggly slags, as well as all those narco-trafficantes and Cuban exiles being all Trumpite, ooh, I'd probably be sick and tired of the heat and merengue and greasy sandwiches.

Parts of Texas are worse. Over a hundred °F, and rednecks stretching to the horizon.
Even New York is too hot. Those pizza-snarfing commies are suffering.
Most of the country is like Sacramento right now.
Very hot and bad smelling.

This is why everyone from the rest of country swills 32 ounce soft drinks, is fat and diabetic, and spends their waking hours in a hammock on the back porch, with the hard plastic cord netting leaving inflamed diamond patters in their sweaty purulent backsides that attract nits and chiggers, lazily fanning themselves with a copy of Recliner Magazine which they were just reading for mental exercise. It's hard being an American teenager in Summer.

San Francisco was very nice today. A high of sixty four degrees.
Right now it's cooler. Foggy, and around fifty six.

Don't you wish you could be here?
Too bad.

While the bookseller and I were drinking at the third place -- the karaoke joint was filled with screaming half-wits and the second place was already closed -- we ran into an old friend who expressed how chuffed he was to soon be selling oysters. He has considerable food-service experience, and this will be the third or fourth restaurant he's started.
People in the industry gravitate toward him.
Naturally I wish him well.

Before meeting up at the burger joint earlier, I had naturally smoked my pipe down in C'town. Noticed a loony posturing and striking poses that suggested exorcism in progress, please do not disturb, but not being a daemon or spectral haunting, I decided not to attract his attention. In this city it is often best to avoid eye-contact. Which might explain the large number of local residents on the spectrum. Here, they are normal. Neurotypicals often feel frustrated and out of it. Their deep spirituality and artistic personalities cannot be expressed unless they talk to people. When they do, they come across as nuts.



Several days ago I realized that I've been approaching my medical appointments all wrong.
I usually schedule them for first thing in the morning, because most of the patients any of my doctors see are elderly Russians and Chinese, who just cannot show up on time for beans. Which means I get seen promptly and am out of there with plenty of time for snackiepoos. But at that hour I'm usually at my best. "How are you doing?" "I feel full of dynamite, Doctor, absolutely splendid!" But really, I should show up much later, by which time I would have something to complain about.

If I ate typical American breakfasts, it would be different. All that fried starchy sugary crap would give me acid-indigestion and obstructed bowels, and oh boy would I have something to complain about. Any hour of the day. Young people these days! My lawn, my lawn!
They're moving into the neighborhood! The HOA will hear about this!
In my day, you could get a good cigar for fifty cents!
Those hippies ruined everything!



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BERSERK PARADIGM

The mechanical brain of the internet has suspicions about you, and keeps track of searches, and news articles that have peaked your recent interest, no matter how flitting and temporary that was. And consequently it wishes to show you much more of that. Worst case example: You once looked up rancid cooking oil in connection with a vegan restaurant shut down by the county health department in April. You're still getting informative articles and influencer horse puckey about rancid tattooed vegan chefs falling into the deepfryer to this day.

Did they change the oil in time after that?
How dang large was that deepfryer?
What were his tatoos?
Freemasons.


So today Facebook shoveled an exceptionally long article in front of me about Amlodipine Besylate, posted by a health and wellness influencer. Out of curiosity I looked at the comments, expecting much uninformed sh*twaffling by self-vaunted experts.
I was not disappointed.

Good lord.

Amlodipine besylate is an evil international plot.

Young women with leaky bladders. Hibiscus tea. Pumpkin seed oil.
Oxalatives. Honey. Avoid processed foods. Don't eat meat.
Apple cider vinegar. Excessive sexual activities.
Not this but some other supplement.
Polonium. Aluminium.
Ginseng.

In retrospect, perhaps you should dance widdershins around a crucifix at midnight chanting baby Jesus' secret name, which for four easy monthly payments (!) we will send you another syllable of regularly. It gets longer and longer, but start now to get the process going. Part of the proceeds goes to homes for vegan orphans in Outer Mongolia, where there are massive uric acid deposits that both Russia and the pharmaceutical industry want.
Trust us, we have ancient native visions.

Do your own research!


People are getting stupider.


FYI: I'm perfectly satisfied with my blood pressure meds. I'm still alive. And I'm not a young woman with a leaky bladder, not even one I keep in a locked casket in my sock drawer.
Which you should not know about. It's a secret.
The pharmaceutical industry.



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BLACK COFFEE

Who is this dick parked in our driveway at six o'clock in the morning? When I grumpily step outside barely caffeinated to smoke my first pipe of the day? Why is he parked here? I call him 'he' because no woman would drive an EssYouVee of such size and mud-spattered butchness. It pretty much screams loudly that the owner has a penis of which he is excessively fond, even though it is undoubtedly small.
Very small.


It was gone by the time I returned. Possibly scared off by one of the local dogs, which may have relieved itself several different ways against it. Bless it's vicious canine heart.
I'm betting a chihuahua.

No one can take so ultra macho a conveyance seriously.
Feel free to laugh, point, and sneer at it.
A stupid testicular automobile.
Real he-man's car.


Yesterday I ate shrimp paste beef stirfried with rice noodles (蝦醬牛肉炒米粉 'haa jeung ngau yiuk chaau mai fan). So naturally I dreamed of something entirely different, which in my estimation would make a dynamite breakfast.

Do NOT serve this in one of those stupid restaurant skillets. And I'm surprised that the local early morning joints don't have this on the menu. Small pasta shells, sliced smoked pork and veal sausage, crumbled bacon, tomato sauce, butter, grated Parmesan-like cheese, sherry, olive oil, minced garlic, fresh parsley, and white pepper. Pinch of nutmeg. Easy.

Would go perfectly with a cup of strong coffee. Quite unlike that tobacco mixture I bought several months ago which fond reviewers had glowingly described as superior with a some hot black liquid. They were idiots. Crusty old fossils living in small apartments with peeling wallpaper, which smelled of ancient grease and spoiled milk. I should have remembered that black coffee drinkers are much more likely than the general population to be psychopaths.
Much like a chap who wandered into my work this past weekend.


Do NOT try to entertain yourself by seeing how long you can hold your breath till you pass out while an aged nutball harshly harangues you about the little baby Jesus.
Which sounds like 'coconut' and 'accusation' in Cantonese.
Sunday school. As taught by a mental defective.
Who habitually swills black coffee.

You need a big plate of warm pasta with porky bits right now.
Hot comforting cheesy greasy noodly goodness.
And a creamy caffè latte.
Or two.



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THE PREDATORIES

The bus across the hill was not entirely full, as it wasn't rush hour yet. Three elderly people wearing masks, not over their noses. One looked mean and stupid, one was obviously gaga, and one simply looked dull. Across from me was a row of young women of a typical type: standard issue unpleasant office yups. Smirking, preoccupied, overly done.

Do not let this person become a corporate liability.
Prepare to fire at the first opportunity.


A few blocks from the bus stop I arrived at the lunch place. Milk tea and something Chinese. No other Caucasians present the entire time. It was very good. Peaceful.
No Karens. No HOA presidents. No 'yes men'.
No influencer types.


As you can guess, I'm still recovering from dealing with many people in Marin over the weekend, representing both the pretentious young and old of our species.

As well as their delusional self-regard.

Marin is toxic sludge.

San Francisco desk-drones do not rank significantly higher.

To be perfectly honest, I do not really like American society. There is a sickness in it, entirely self-infected. Celebrity worship, overpaid sports stars, ignorance, as well as a complete rejection of most civilized norms.


On the way back after a post lunch pipe smoke, I noticed a young woman reading a thick book at the bus stop. She got off at the same stop as myself, still avidly reading.
It was not a business studies textbook. So there is hope.



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IT GREW

Foot ache and periods of discomfort are almost necessary effects of being at work for several days, and as you would expect interfered with restful slumber. Combined with needing to go micturate. Which meant fractured dreams with periods irridescently bright in short term memory, more than half remembered. Normal dreaming fades. Not these. A large spotted feline. A teenage girl ensconced behind the multi-volume scientific encyclopaedia, happily absorbing engineering sections. And I had been unaware that there was a spacious cave behind there with room enough for a reading lamp and a tea-stand. A skiff on the Yssel lake fleeing the fast encroaching dry land as polderization occured at break-neck speeds. Distantly smoldering truck tires. A volcano spewing India ink (that smell, you know).
Almond pastries begging to be eaten.

Around the third or fourth time I got up I took a Tylenol, ensuring that the foetus would be born autistic according to our officials. Also, that sleep became less fragmentary.

Two things: Many (most) teenage girls are entirely uninterested in engineering, and almond pastries are sensual. The first is depressing reality, the second a pleasing breakfast feature.

India ink, by the way, has faint hints of wet cardboard and terpeneol.
Somewhere a deviant is sniffing his pen nibs.
Mmmmmmmmmm!

For reasons which make absolutely no sense, ink drawing is associated in my mind with colourful crocheted knee-rugs on the living room couch, reading Rudyard Kipling, and a view of the Saint Nicholas church across the street.

Not at all with girls (no matter how intelligent), science or engineering, or volcanoes. Or skiffs. Or tire fires. Unlike normal adolescent American boys I did not date at that age, and though females were interesting to me I did not persue the matter. It is very likely that I knew more about distant geo-thermal events and Tierra Del Fuego than the female psyche in those days, and I must have been a fascinating conversationalist, if one were a member of a narrow spectrum. I did not sweat a lot, certainly no more than normal boys.

And I had already discovered the wonders of caffeine.
Deep rich coffee, the tannic fragrance of tea.
These make civilization possible.


During my work days I have several cups. When I get home I have some more. Which may have influenced my dreams and contributed to my physical state during the night.
It's debatably better living through body chemistry.



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ALL THE BOOLAS

Two ex-military men were boisterous and repetitive at the end of day. I was tired and hurt in several places, as at this age is common, but I was never-the-less able to remain courteous. Because I have trained myself to graciously put up with people. Despite sometimes wishing to say "thank you for your service now get the floody buck out of my face you utter blister". Which might be unprofessional, you understand. And conceivably taken amiss.
I do not wish there to be any amiss taking.

Definitely not in Marin County where people are sensitive and spiritual and might have big feelings, saints preserve us.

It's a very special and delicate part of the world.


I will be off work for a few days and I look forward to having real food in San Francisco while dodging the heffalump tourists from Karenstan (the Red States) with which at present we are awash, as they waddle waddle waddle down the sidewalks in dreamy slo-mo on the lookout for shops that sell "my parents visited fishermans wharf and all I got was crabs" tee-shirts in sizes extra-large through extinct prehistoric carnivore.

Sometimes it feels like the entire population of McAllen, Texas, is visiting.
Or Alabama and Mississippi, where everyone has diabetes.
And every damned meal is deepfried.

Yes, I know I should be kinder about my fellow Americans, but please remember that Trump won the election, which means that over half the country voted for him and can't be trusted.

There is precious little intelligent life between the Ferry Building on the Embarcadero and New Hampshire. No wonder we're the only place where space aliens land. Good food, and more books per capita than any other place except Singapore, which also has resident space aliens. If you see somebody looking remarkably like Will Smith running down the street with a strange device, kindly step out of the way and avert your eyes. It's serious business.


No, I shall not tell you where to get good cioppino.
We're all out of sourdough, please leave.
Beat poetry was not written here.
We have no mayonnaise.
It's bloody sad.



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SCENES OF OTTER MADNESS

My apartment mate is reading about otters and muttering in Russian. Well, something that souns like Russian. These are highly trainable otters. I'm in the teevee room in front of my computer, she's reading something written by an English person in her room next door.


Why is she up this early?


Oh good. Now she's arguing with the turkey vulture in the voice of the one-legged monkey. So we have a Russian dude from the book, disobedient otters, a turkey vulture going on about fatty inner thighs, and an indignant gibbon in there.

It sounds quite noisy, I shall not enter.
Sanity depends on staying out.

You know, when I wake up in the morning I need caffeine to start sparky synapses.
She's highly functioning without a single drop of coffee.

I also wish to smoke my pipe.

Outside, in the cool and dark, with no slithe otters, birds of carrion, and sternly critical remonstrantive tree-dwellers around, because at this early hour I really am not highly functioning or even conversational.

So far this morning my functioning has not been 'highly', but merely 'barely'. Woke up from a dream featuring a non-existent teenage female relative who had finished reading both the biology textbook (meant to last all the way through high school) and the chemistry textbook (ditto) and was keen to "borrow" anything scientific in my library, and a cat sleeping on top of the reference books in a shaft of moonlight who did not want to be disturbed. Having put on the water for coffee I took my pills and went into the bathroom.

I have strung together one or two sentences and been "social".
One cannot expect anything more for a while.
It gets no better than this.

I do not wish to contemplate otters yet.
Good morning.



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WHERE IS THE HOTEL? HOTEL! HOTEL!

The problem with dealing with people from vastly different ethnic and cultural backgrounds is that when one recognizes their behavioural social assumptions, one can either act much like a typical tourist oneself -- respond ever louder without approaching the situation -- or adapt to the person in question, and circumvent potential stumbling blocks. Which is okay, but if there are too many of them at once from widely divergent mental places, one ends up spinning and disoriented. I am the designated United Nations translator and diplomat at work. Because I am linguistically flexible and somewhat well-travelled. And I've dealt with everything from Suez to Yokohama in the last two days.

I'm a Dutch-speaker from somewhere in Middle Earth, okay?.
We don't have your "precious", there's no hobbit here.
Who is this Smaug of whom you speak?
And please, no Orcs.

Do not try to talk Elvish to me. Yo no comprendo.

The best time of day is before the doors open. If anybody comes in it will usually be the neurosurgeon, who is very easy to get along with, much like the medical researcher who works on cancer treaments. Both are rational and brilliantly intelligent, and consquently communication is effortless and enjoyable. There is content and expertise.

The worst time of day is from lunch till closing when all the neediest hard of hearing bozos in a hundred mile radius stumble in. And please understand that "hard of hearing" is meant metaphorically and diplomatically.

Trust me, there are piranhas and sharks in that upland lake. Don't go swimming.


On the other hand, I am well advanced on cleaning up several oversized Charatans of the type that advertise that the smoker who used to use them had a very small penis and desperately needed to compensate.


Lovely briar. Just too damned large.
Biological freak.



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FRAGMENTARY IMAGE

It fleets. Dreamed of Amsterdam again last night. Which I've visited numerous times, but where I never actually lived. The last relative to reside in Amsterdam was Abraham Pietersen Van Deursen who left for to Nieuw Amsterdam in 1630. So it's been a while. After we moved to the Netherlands, we were in Bussum briefly, then Naarden, after which we settled in Valkenswaard. So I do know part of the country quite well.

Bussum is snowed under, Naarden is drenched in sunlight and smells of tar and wild flowers, and V'waard is Autumnal and somewhat rainy, but also has dustmotes in shafts of sun in the front hallway as well as lovely Spring warmth in our courtyard.

And of course the entire country smells of tobacco and coffee.
Although the tobacco may have faded since then.

Especially in schools and hospitals.


The anti-smoking movement was a godsend for some Dutch people, as they could finally give vent to a streak of vicious puritanism that their society had long repressed (that famous tolerance, you know) and act quite as savage and disapproving as the average Berkeleyite, for the best of reasons, constantly between angry snarl and know-it-all smirk.
Fully supported by politicians in Brussels.

Pipe smoking is part of their Intangible Cultural Heritage (which probably pisses off all the do-gooders), but dark shag hand-rolled cigarettes should also be right up there. Even their trainstations and public parks were faintly perfumed with that smoke. It's a fragrance that prompts memories. Once could for many years recapture it, but here in the United States it is nearly impossible nowadays to find a pack of zware shag.

Coffee is easy. Americans are in the midst of a coffee jag that just won't quit. Years ago that was different, finding actual coffee, even in Berkeley and San Francisco, was a victory. Most people simply drank thin blackish muck with a burnt flavour like the cavemen used to swill, and tea of course was a complete impossibility.

Now everyone is wired to the tits and crazy as a loon.
So there has been considerable improvement.

Still a long way to go.



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TOO MANY CAPS AND YOU MISSPELLED DUMB-O-CRATS

Donald John Trump, in the middle of the night, got up to write: "People are sick and tired of having to change their clocks twice a year. It is foolish, inconvenient and, in some cases, very costly. For Cities and States with Watchtowers, and hard to reach places, it costs Millions of Dollars. A recent case was made that it is also bad for your health in the anxiety it creates. Leading Medical, Crime, and Economic Studies have shown that ceasing the biannual time change, giving us one extra hour of natural sunlight in the evenings, will help Decrease Robbery and Murder Rates, Reduce Car Accidents (especially those involving Pedestrians!), Lower Risk for Cardiac Issues, Stroke, and Seasonal Depression, Make It Safer for Children to Walk Home from School, Increase Time with your Family, Strongly Support Extracurricular Activities, Be a Big Boost to Sports, Fitness, Tourism, Retail, and the Restaurant Industries (and more!), and Save Money on Energy Bills, because everyone will be enjoying an EXTRA HOUR OF DAYLIGHT. In other words, leave it as it is now, and never change again. This is an issue that Republicans, Dumocrats, and Independents can unite behind." [End quote]


Perhaps watchtowers are a type of windmill?
Or alien liberal structures.


How did you Republicans end up with such an addled dumbass?

Did Jayzus himself come down and tell you "thou shalt vote for the orange dimwit" and y'all obeyed? You should know by now that voices from the sky aren't real. It's probably that toxic whiskey y'all drink. Or psychedelic food poisons in the burgers.

Damn', y'all effing stoopid.


And your chief is illiterate.



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FREE RANGE BABIES AND LIBERTY CABBAGE

The greatest thing about doomscrolling is that one often discovers strange new worlds. Such as the televangelist who claims space aliens stole her eggs and are making lizard-christian hybrids, or that earth will have lost its gravitational pull for several seconds yesterday. Experts disagree over exactly how many seconds that was.
Some say five, some six, some seven.

Or that the people divinely chosen to lead the United States eat weird.
No, not like raccoons out by the strip mall dumpster.
Real weird. Commercially made.

Donald Trump: Big Macs, Filet-O-Fish, Quarter Pounders, and ketchup steak.
Marco Rubio: Pop tarts. Lots and lots of toasty pop tarts.
RFK Jr.: Red meat and sauerkraut.
Besides roadkill.

Several cabinet members eat babies, of course. As you would expect.
Free range babies, naturally raised, prepared Southern style.

For me, the most interesting thing is that Bobby travels everywhere with a cooler full of sauerkraut. Mind you, I myself sometimes enjoy sauerkraut, as well as its cousins pickled mustard stems (榨菜 'jaa choi'), soured napa cabbage (酸菜 'suen choi'), and Tianjin winter vegetable (冬菜 'tung choi'). But a cooler full of it? That suggests that he devours it by the bucket, in between meals, while attending meetings, or snacking late at night.

Gas due to fiber, complex sugars, and live bacteria.
A farting worm-brained coke fiend.
Head of HHS.

The headmaster of our grammar school, who grew up in Amsterdam before and during the Great Depression, once detailed how to make sauerkraut ("zuurkool"), which they did every year when the cabbages were plentiful. A large vat, salt, and a round slab with a heavy stone weight on top. He was matter-of-fact about it, but it did not sound like an exceptionally fond memory. It was just a neccesary thing people did in those days. He had not made any sauerkraut since his youth. Probably because it was cheaply available.
Why, you could buy coolers full of it in the modern age!


There is no sauerkraut on these pemises. I've never bought any.
I do have jarchoy, suenchoy, and tungchoy here.
Plus Indian achars.


I do not eat babies, I am not a Republican or Evangelical.



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SOMETIMES FACE BLINDNESS

It was a very nice smile. She recognized me from a different place, and seemed pleased to see me at the Wednesday place, where I have sometimes also seen her. She's older than me, and had eaten alone. I was sitting down as she was getting up to leave, and we said hello to each other (你好，你好 'nei hou, nei hou'). One very rarely sees Caucasians in either place, which may have been what made me stand out. Because I'm actually not very memorable.

Earlier at the hospital pharmacy I had semi-recognized three people who didn't know me, and one person waiting for her meds who smiled in recognition. Someone who actually works fairly near where I live, has been more or less in the vicinity for many years.

No, not a food place.


Makes me wonder what I shall do tomorrow, seeing as I've already picked up my meds, don't have a regular Thursday place, already went to the bank where the young teller from two weeks ago happily greeted me, and I've already visited the provisioners.
Laundry, I guess. Don't particularly like the others there.
And wish to avoid the yakkity fellow.

Being recognized is kind of nice, provided the people doing so are folks one gets along with and decent too. One does not want to be recognized by eccentrics (totally unique creative individuals) and random loonies. In that regard, Chinatown is one of the safest places.

Whereas the rest of the city has hipster wannabees, exceedingly artistic types, and sheer sweaty multitudes of Beat-era very important poets.


Perhaps you understand that I am not hip or artistic, and do not compose beatnik poetry.
The poetry I do write is in Dutch, and not meant for anyone outside my head.
I shan't claim to be a totally unique creative individual.
Why, there must be tonnes of me.



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THE BONA FIDES

For the people who do not grasp colourful American expressions, I need to clarify that when one says "my piles bleed for" something or someone, it is not to be taken literally. It is meant as sarcastic fake commiseration. As in "he hasn't had a decent job in years". In repsonse to which, if one kind of doesn't give a damn', one might say "my piles bleed for him. Not so much a medical statement as a sneer. There might, in fact, be utterly no piles at all. This comes to mind because of yet another commercial on teevee for a medication for gastric distress or something gut related that afflicts people on a typical American garbage diet.

My piles bleed for them. Maybe they should consider abstaining from all the fried offerings at Uncle Bob's Chunk-O-Rama. Especially the Big Bucket Of Pork Nuggets covered in ranch dressing and crumbled bacon. Eight of those a week is really too much. At the very least, don't always order the combo, you really don't need that thirty two ounce soda.
Or a side of giant onion rings.

On the other hand, I sure am glad that they don't eat at the same places I do. Such as this afternoon, where other than eight Mandarin speakers and probably an equal number of Cantonese speaking individuals there was no one.

I finished eating before the African American Buddhist cum Taoist showed up, so that was icing on the cake. Unique individuals change the lighting on all of us, whereas normal behaviour makes us all seem much more bearable.

Had two good smokes in Chinatown today. First one in banded and blasted Peterson billiard, the second much later before the bookseller showed up, in a Dunhill Bruyere 55 (I think that's the shape number, but I struggle to discern it). Before lunch I ran some errands there which scarcely involved English, and on the bus across the hill I had listened in on an elderly lady explaining to her friend that she was seriously thinking of retiring in Amsterdam, where her sister lives. She looked like an Indo, so the next time I see her I really must ask "engkau bisa bitjara bahasa Belanda?" to which an affirmative answer will establish both. The question itself, if she understands it, will demonstrate that there are various points in common.

Ik ken Amsterdam erg goed. En ik heb vrienden die daar wonen.


In any case. The bookseller is at the beginning of a nine day vacation, in preparation for which he has mopped his front room. So he's in clean digs, which I applaud wholeheartedly, but cannot quite emulate. There is an entire reference library under my bed which I haven't visited in years, so I cannot quite remember what books are down there. See, if I did look, I'd have to get up again. To which I am slightly averse. The creaky joints, you know. I think The Marine Engineers Manual is down there, as well as a tome about map-making, and a thick encyclopedia of literary Chinese. Possibly also an Oxford Dictionary.

He doesn't have that problem. Even though nearly every week a different part of him is out of whack. Sometimes because of pinball-related injuries or bruises. It's a more active life.



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DOCTOR, INFLUENCER, MYSTIC SHAMAN

According to Trump, they have a vaccine the size of a soda bottle that they pump into infants. He's seen proof. And so far none of the rightwingers have pushed back on that claim in the slightest. Because, after all, he's Trump. The saviour. He can he possibly be wrong?

Look, if you are taking medical advice from Trump, or Rand Paul, or RFK Jr., or Doctor Oz, you are an idiot, and you might be dead by now. Which if you were would be a blessing, because you're too stupid to function, and society does not deserve you.

And I'm okay with that.


Trust me, you dying or being dead because you trusted any of the people mentioned above would truly own the liberals, big time, oh my heavens yes, gosh whatever shall we do.


I'm just sad that more of you morons didn't gargle with bleach and take ivermectin. But it's NOT too late! You can still do that. Think of the children, will no one think of the children, all over the red states there are little kiddies forced to live with people who have not done their duty as loyal Americans and protected themselves or their beloved families with bleach and large doses of de-wormer. It's untenable! This will not stand! All Republicans should do sodium hypochlorite and anti-parasitics in sufficiently large doses, and I thoroughly encourage that. I've seen a video, so I know what I'm talking about.

Think about Jesus.

I also encourage you to take apple cider vinegar and manuka honey.

Earlier had today I called the pharmacy to get another ninety day supply of Xarelto, but their computers were wanky, so later today or tomorrow I shall have to try again. I'm okay on the Atorvastatin, Metoprolol Succinate ER, Aspirin, and Lozartan HCTZ, and there's enough Amlodipine Besylate to last till next week.


As for the bleach, ivermectin, apple cider vinegar, and manuka honey, I've got enough to last me a lifetime, I made sure of that. Meaning that there is none of it in the building.


You can have it all.




UPDATE ao 3:23 PM

Called the pharmacy again, this time no problem, so tomorrow I can pick up a refill of Xarelto (Rivaroxaban) 2.5 milligram tablets, to take twice daily (180 pills), an anticoagulatory blood thinner used for deep vein thrombosis and pulmonary embolisms (teensie weensie clots in the lungs) and to prevent strokes, as well as similar issues after surgeries, or, for instance, an angioplasty. Such as was done last year on my dexter lower extremity (right leg).
Xarelto was praescribed cautionarily following the procedure.

The stuff seems to be working.
I'm not dead yet.


Don't bother coming by on Thursday.
I think I will go for a walk now.
I feel fine, I feel happy!



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DON'T TURN IT ON

When I stepped out on the front steps I could hear someone coughing up a diseased lung somewhere to my right, and the sounds of empty beer cans and casual littering off to my left.
So I didn't light my pipe but went back inside. An hour later there was drunken idiot-mumbling nearby. Okay, maybe I don't need a last smoke before bed. This morning the street was emptier and quieter, so I finally sparked it.

It struck me that street lights in the Netherlands weren't so bright, evenings were colder and darker. And the loonies weren't as loony either. Americans have a greater talent for insanity, probably encouraged by the street lighting here, because I can't see any other reasons. Well, other than drugs, politics, religion, capitalism, plastic consumer culture, reality shows on teevee, junkfood, and high fructose corn syrup. Plus inbreeding and the weather.
But I'm quite certain that that is it, it has to be the lighting.

Like bugs scurrying when you flicked the switch.
All you wanted was a cool glass of water.
What you got was an Orkin moment.


A bowl of pipe tobacco tastes much better in the morning than when the local booby hatch has let out later in the day. Peace, calm, mostly empty streets, aged red Virginia from Cornell & Diehl modified with some Perique and a touch of Izmir, a bent Dunhill patent number shape 56 that smokes like a dream, and the prospect of a second cup of coffee. Not black, but creamy, like the Queen of Sheba. I like my coffee like I like my women, nicely hued.

Okay, some similes suck like a shop vacuum cleaner. That's just the way it is. It's like all the words line up for their grand entrance in a teen beauty pageant and accidentally smear their make-up and look like a Stephen King clown lurking in a sewer. I don't know how that happens. That too is probably the effect of brightness.


It also strikes me that I am lucky to have the apartment mate I have. Many American women model their behaviour on Melanie Wilkes, the girls in "Friends", and the ladies in the Real Housewives franchise. Saps, drips, and sickening twittery twats.

Her and my minds spark similarly. But she is more nurturing than I am, which why the saner stuffed animals live in her room instead of mine.

The sanest ones on my side are the communist frog and the German intellectual raccoon (University of Heidelberg).



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THERE IS ALWAYS TIME FOR MASALA

Sometimes I remember the foods from the restaurant where I worked for several years with longing. Our chef made delicious food, and even the nasty Bengali muslim who substituted for him when he headed back to Tehri Garhwal for several months two or three times did great stuf. Imagine something equidistant between Delhwi, Awadhi, and Kashmiri.


I can also remember the proprietor once lecturing someone on how healthy Indian food was. Which it absolutely is not. Because properly prepared and safe for all castes usually means that the very first thing in the pot is ghee, the great purifier, which may also be added a few times at later stages. The naans, of course, are slathered with melted butter.

Many prosperous subcontinentals will die of heart attacks.
Their plump children will probably have diabetes.
But they will have fun eating.
And likely get fat.

Yes yes, I know that there is much in Indian cuisine which is not a heart attack on a plate, but realistically that is not why you go to a restaurant nor what anyone fondly remembers from their Brahmin aunties tables. Plain boiled lentils, no ginger or garlic or heating spices.
With a bowl of salted yoghurt. Mmm, no.


GOSHT NI TARKARI
A meat curry

One pound mutton on the bone, large chunk cut.
Three Bombay onions, diced.
Three tomatoes, ditto.
Six cloves garlic, minced.
One thumb sized piece of ginger, minced.
Three or four green cardamom pods.
Half dozen whole pepper corns.
One or two bay leaves.
One or two whole cloves.
One black cardamom.
2 tsp coriander powder.
1 tsp cumin seeds.
1 tsp cayenne powder.
1/2 tsp turmeric powder.
One stick cinnamon (or cassia in the U.S.).
Two or three TBS ghee (can substitute cooking oil).

Put the grease and the whole spices (cardamom, pepper, bay leaves, cumin seeds) in the pot, stir until the comin seeds darken slightly. Add the onion, cook till starting to gild. Then add the mutton chunks and stir a while. After about five or ten minutes, while the meat is still pinkish, add the garlic and ginger, and cook till the garlic and start to colour. Then add the powdered spices and turn well to coat the meat while cooking. It will be fragrant. Then put the tomato in the pot and stir to break it up. Add water and simmer, stirring periodically, for one and a half to two hours.

I would also at the time of the water add two or three whole Jalapeños to float in the goo and lend their aroma, plus a bit more grease, and instead of water I might use red wine or sherry. Sort of a 'curry Bourgignon'. Or Indonesianize it with coconut milk. In any case, the end result should be a savoury gravy with chunks, perfect over a plate of rice.

Like everything, have some sambal on the side.


After dining, go out onto the veranda with a short shot of strong sweet cardamom coffee and a pipe, and watch the tropical river sludging past while smoking (a fine broken flake by Rattray's), and listening to the distant crepuscular marsh birds.
The Kuwak-putjong, or a Tjabak, for instance.

I have no veranda, there is no tropical river here, and we have crows.
A walk around the block while spotting corvids.
The same tobacco.



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