LOST IN THE UNDERGROWTH

One of the older fellows celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of the first date with his wife by taking flowers and icecream to the assisted care facility where she now lives. She can no longer quite recognize who he is, or when he was there last, and needs to be supervised lest she wander off into the woods, but she was never-the-less very happy to see him.
He still remembers who she is and visits her every day.

Fifty years. That's a long time. When he stops by where I work we are happy to see him too.

Because I think it's a sign of basic human respect for one's fellow, I try to remember who everyone I see more than once or twice is. Learned that while working for Indians, to whom every Mexican in the kitchen was "hey amigo", almost like it was a caste designation.

[Of course I should mention that many of them were simply J.Singh. Jabbargan Singh. Jagbir Singh. Jagdish Sing. Jagman Singh. Jagtar Sing. Jit Singh. Jeevan Singh. Jodh Sing. Joginder Singh. Joshvir Sing. Jot Singh. ..... ]


Never having met his wife, I have no idea who she is. But judging by the man, she is probably a wonderful woman, still, and would be nice to meet.

Whereupon I would remember her name.

There is one chap whose surname I remembered because it translates as "little hammer".
I'm rather embarassed because his first name totally escapes me, and I haven't taken the time to look it up in the system.

I really should. I know what subject he's studying, and even the cigars that he thinks are the bees knees and cat's whiskers. And I've learned to ignore his grouchy appearance, as that's just the way his eyebrows twist. But his primary appellation has fled me.


Because several years ago I worked temp jobs I still encounter people who remember me while wandering in downtown San Francisco, whose names and peculiarities are totally lost. Often they are delighted to see me. As I am. But I keep the conversations short because otherwise I might hurt their feelings, what with having absolutely no clue who they are.

Sadly, I remember the exact glaze of a coffee mug I broke way back when while doing an assignment at dotdotdot bank on Montgomery Street precisely and exactly. It was a modern rendition of the same effect on one of my favourite antique ricebowls (also broken years ago). Very nice. Mottled rusty autumnal reds from iron oxide glaze.



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PUTTING IT DELICATELY

The Netherlands got 20 medals, the United States 33. But the Netherlands is one twentieth the size of the US, and doesn't have an adult diaper wearing pedophile as its head of government. And they're respected internationally. So in real terms, they're doing quite well, thank you.

A friend moved to the Netherlands last year to get far away from our devolutionary return to feudalism. She and her husband are still learning Dutch, but sometime soon I expect her to start reading Brederode and Vondel, and belatedly realizing that they're in the catbird seat, culture-wise.

That probably explains the absence of an adult diaper wearing pedo over there, and why we do have one in Washington. Apparently the White House has an odour of busted toilet most of the time now.

But do please keep shouting that we're the greatest country on earth.
You ess ay! You ess ay! You ess ay!


The United States is indeed the greatest country in Texas.

In other news, I think I may have found a pipe tobacco that has been aromatized which is actually unnoticeable to my coworker Hecky. Samuel Gawith's Kendal Cream, which whiffs in the tin like rootbeer with slight hints of distant urinal cake and old lady's lingerie drawers. It's subtle, and a pleasing smoke, which surprised me. He didn't run away screaming that I was killing the planet and for heavens sake think of the children (!), or act in any way like I was viciously torturing him and trying to give him nightmares. I don't think he even noticed.

He may wake up screaming in the middle of the night now, but that won't be my problem.

Filled a GBD bulldog with it and slowly smoked it over a slightly more than hour and a half stretch, while dealing with some truly lovely old pipes. Somebody should do a serious study on the briar that Peterson used during the fifties and sixties. It had a particular look.
I don't think they have the same source nowadays.
Rather a pity.

I think I'll have another bowl of it after dumplings tomorrow.



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DEEPLY MEANINGFUL, OH!

The egg roll cookies mentioned in a previous post were crumbleome and delicious. I had three of them. The technique for eating them is to extend your lips in a tube shape around them and bite, in order to minimize crumbs and fragments going all over your clothes. The name of the brand roughly tranlates as "East Gazes at the Ocean", and there is a cute drawing on one side of a manga type person warmly dressed riding a fish.

No, I do not know what the back-story there is. I bought the tin on a whim a few weeks ago, because it is red and colourful and the Chinese text on one side wished me a happy new year. You would have done the same.

Probably also without noticing the smilling fish-riding munchkin.

We did not open the tin till yesterday evening.
Which was an oversight.



It is traditional to purchase a supply of egg roll cookies around the time of Chinese New Year. I have no idea why this is so. There's probably some deep spiritual significance. Invented especially to impress the white people. Who are unwilling to accept that sometimes something will be done because it's fun.

Just like the manga type person riding the fish. Cute illustration. Let's put it on the box! Why? Because it's fun, dude. What's the connection to the product? There isn't any, but who cares?


Which is why there's a picture of a stone bridge across a jungle ravine in England above. No connection to the egg roll cookies. None whatsoever. But it's kind of pretty, if you like green stuff and scenery, and I thought placing it here without any logical connection or context would be fun to do. And I had nowhere else to put it after creating it.



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LOOKING AT DIFFERENT ANGLES

As a bad-tempered old reptile I should not like the repulsive Republicans with whom through my work I must necessarily deal. You will be pleased to know that I remain true to form. Bear in mind that most of them hate foreigners (even the Irishman) and are convinced and vocal about the falsehood and downright slander of associating Trump in any way at all with the Epstein files. Trump, they aver, is a saint. A downright upstanding saint.

Nothing to see there, just keep moving along.
It's all a Democrat Party plot.

Three of them have kids who will eventually ban them from contact.



Every evening I am glad to leave Marin and return to San Francisco. This evening I was wondering why there are so many people in the city. Happy party hearty people. Possibly stoned, wired to the tits people. What on earth are they all doing here?
Why are so many of them ditzy as all heck?

That may have been my not-quite ready for human contact side rearing it's fluffy head after a full day in Marin County surrounded by rabid dingoes.

PERSPECTIVE!

My apartment mate just said that at some point everybody turns into an old turtle looking for egg roll cookies to gum after dipping in warm milky milk, and possibly a soft sock to cuddle. That, certainly, is a different perspective.


At this point, after a very long day, it's an appealing one.
Oh my golly yes. Indeed. Very much so.

She also says that people are mostly stupid.
That also is an appealing perspective.



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RISKY OLD GEEZER BUSINESS

Yesterday I could have and should have done my laundry. But I didn't feel like it. It was too cold. So I'll pong a bit for the duration. Instead I had a long comfy tea-time with cookies and a pipe, inside the apartment. I doubt that my apartment mate will notice, as a few windows were open, I had cooked a bit, she has a lousy sense of smell, the smoke was finished well before she came home, and in any case the tail of the flu will have buggered up her nose.

The greatest risk is when there is no difference between the temperatures inside and outside, as there will then be quite minimal exchanges of air.

So, to reiterate: Trim Dutch American fellow, strong cup of tea, aged Virginia tobacco, Dunhill Shellbriar of a pleasing shape from before Dunhill ceased being Dunhill, and cookies.


One happy cold camper.

Pleasedly cursing the outside temperatures, the weather in general, the entire Republican Party whose fault everything is and especially the tacky Christian wing who are anything but actually Christian, blonde influencers, has-been rockers, pick-up truck drivers, large parts of the country, everyone on the Epstein list, Florida and Texas, and the upper echelons of the Federal Gubmint.

Key things to remember: There are no Republicans in this building. Everyone is cold, but in a week or two it will be quite different. Rain is something that a Dutchman should be used to, darnit. If the tobacco was Presbyterian the smell would linger and she would tell me to go smoke that putrid crap down at the abandoned church with the bums and raccoons. Presbyterian is a mighty fine mixture, by the way. An overload of stinky Turk.

The cookies were excellent.

Think happy forest creature, Wind In The Willows, cosy den, twiddly toes.



You know, it's colder on Neptune's moons right now.

Those darn Republicans.



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GREAT DESTINATIONS

For at least the last ten years I have not been to the mall. Things have changed. In some parts of the world malls are destinations because of air conditioning, food courts, and bubble tea. In San Francisco, or so I've heard, malls are where rabid animals compete with goth skateboarders for tourist heads. As well as the last bastions of great American food like California pizza, gluten freeze, and vegan hotdogs.

Or something like that. The point is that no one really goes there. Whatever happens at the mall is on a foreign planet.

Once upon a time there were bookstores and tobacco shops at the mall.

No one had even heard of twenty four hour gyms.


There's a mall down on Market Street where no one goes, and another underneath four towers of corporate law offices and investment companies at the end of the busline.
Also one at the end of the streetcar line. Westwood? Westgate? Westpack?
Someplace with zombies dressed in pastels from suburbia.
Also probably a Wafflehouse or Denny's.
As well as an Original Joe's.

Malls are where hip coffee joints and ramen houses go to die.

Boys, if you've lost the grumpy Dutchman demographic, you have failed. Losers.
You are not even halfway cutting edge. We add cheer and vibrancy.

Have you considered luring us back with herring?



NOTE: This post written while preparing some fishcakes with spicy sauce for lunch. That may have something to do with the subject matter. Fish cakes, chilipaste, minced fresh ginger, and crushed peanuts. Genius!



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BAD HABITS

Sometimes I think I never grew up. A sane adult would have spent the last hour or so in bed, listening to the rain, rather than getting up at an ungodly hour for coffee followed by a pipe when the temperature is in the low forties. But at least I'm not one of those psychopaths who start the day with black coffee, scalding hot, and bowl filled with some ghastly harsh over the counter aromatic (a "codger blend") that has a faint whiff of soap and caramel over the cheap drugstore steamed Burley. "Cavendish, son, I love the smell of cavendish in the morning."

In between televised sports, and hunting, shooting, fishing.

Damned all-American he-man nutballs.

Not me. Strong coffee, but made drinkable with milk and sugar. A decent Virginia blend, and if it's NOT raining a stout walking stick to clout psychos upside their pointy heads. This being San Francisco you must assume that before the crack of dawn there have to be psychos about. In addition to dog walkers and joggers. No, I haven't had to clout any one yet.

Mind you, I have tried a few of the crappy over the counter old codger blends. One or two bowls at best before keen disappointment. The only two that made favourable impressions were Brigg's Mixture and Carter Hall. The rest are suitable, in the main, for crusty old farts long divorced whose kinfolk avoid them. For excellent reasons.

If they had children, they managed to lose them.
If they had a dog the wife took it.
The cat left.

They can smoke their gunked-up pipes inside all day long because they live alone and never go out except to the corner store for a bottle, a can of pork luncheon meat, two cans of beans and a loaf of spongy bread, lottery tickets, and a foil packet of grand old codger weed.

The coffee? They have that delivered from Back East, the same outfit that supplied greasy spoon diners catering to hoboes and the down-and-out. It's extremely cheap.

One pot all day. Just add more water and reboil.


Here in SF we're rather particular about our coffee. Graffeo's is still operational, the Trieste also roasts their own beans (for inhouse and retail), Caffe Roma is available by mail order (the actual sit-down coffee shop closed a while back), plus there's Peet's, Blue Bottle, and several other quality coffee outfits. My friend the bookseller is discommoded because places catering to the very young tend to serve the lighter roasts instead of deep earthy spiritually fulfilling dark stuff. Apparently they don't want to infect the bright young things with angst.

He likes to sit down and read the sporting green with a good cup in the morning. Because he is not a pipesmoker, he doesn't have to brave the cold and wet slapping at the underbrush with his riding crop out on the heath grumbling about puritan non-smokers and their repressive regulations.

It's very wet and cold in the dessert, gringo.
Nothing but dingoes out there.


As soon as she leaves for work I'm shutting her door, opening a window, and firing up a bowl. And having another cup of coffee, with milk and sugar. And perhaps a cookie.



Black Java and Caramel Bourbon Grinch™, forsooth!



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IN MY DAY

Inescapable conclusion: I kind of overdid it. Schlepping groceries including a bag of crystal pears (水晶梨 'seui jing lei'), some of which were for the old Indonesian Chinese neighbor lady downstairs, as well as everything else, while trekking all over hell and gone, was, just perhaps, rather much. My upper back hurts like bejayzus. Fortunately I've now got a new container of acetominophen (autistic foetus, yay) as well as more latanoprost (eye stuff).
So medical disasters are postponed. At a safe distance. Not likely.

And I got to say magic words well over a score of times. San nin faai lok (新年快樂), san tai kin hong (身體健康), maan si yu yi (萬事如意), nin nin yau yu (年年有餘), seui seui peng on (歲歲平安), cheung meng paak seui (長命百歲). And all that jazz.
So the proprieties have been observed.

[Translation: Happy New Year, be healthy, may everything be as you wish, surplus every year, peace and safety all of your years, a long life to a hundred years.]

And, of course, lottery tickets. To see if this year will be my lucky day. Yesterday and today were drawing days. Test the water, so to speak. See if it works.

When I returned home, my apartment mate sounded a lot better. She may be finally getting over the flu. Yes, she got jabbed, but the strain that rose to dominance is NOT what was predicted. Subclade K instead. Oopsie. Whacks you for a week or so.

On the other hand, Russell, who had peumonia a year ago, seems to have finally gotten his vigour back. He's in his eighties so it hit him hard. Robert, in his nineties, got it three years ago and is still not entirely one hundred percent.

It rained this morning before I left the house, and started again after I returned nearly five hours later. But in between I enjoyed two smokes, the last one in the pipe shown above, which I've had for nearly two decades. Which gave me great pleasure with several tins of Esoterica during the last three years at the toy company before the Canadians bought it.
I remember particularly autumn and early spring, wandering around the alleys of the Financial District. A Hardcastle sandblast poker, decorative silver band.

Had it going with a mostly red Virginia blend, touches of aged blonde, Turkish, and Perique. Kind of like some of the Esotericas or GLPease's Fog City Collection. Very nice.
Almost demands a cup of strong hot Hong Kong Milk Tea.



At the pharmacy the helpful staff person went ahead and arranged refills of four medications, two of which I shan't need till the end of the month beginning of next. That way I won't have to come down then. But honestly, that wouldn't be a problem. I locomote quite well, and I'm down in Chinatown every day off anyway. I like the neighborhood.
It's a small village with a big city feel.



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ARE THEY FILLED YET?

It's raining, cold, and my apartment mate has the flu. Altogether this is a fairly miserable way to start the year of the horse, and it is hard to smile and be cheerful. There is sog and quite possibly mildew. we're at forty five degrees Fahrenheit (8° Celsius), more or less. In Hong Kong it's twenty degrees higher (18° Celsius). With almost no precipitation.

Californians remain concerned with storm drains and reservoirs.
Even after decades living here I am not.
I'm kind of thoughtless.

Instead, I worry that because of the cold I will grow torpid, stunned by the low temperatures, and fall from a palm tree. Or go into hibernation mode and not rouse till Spring, at which time I will stirr from a pit under the building, and, reserves of fat depleted, go outside to forage for berries, grubs, small mammals, and bee hives.

And of course I'm blaming the Republicans for this.
As any sane person would.
Heathens!


Okay, I'm glad that we're not as cold as Minnesota (30° F., -2° C., America's version of Canada), but still, this is NOT weather conducive to building a flourishing civilization!

Sometime within the next few hours I shall head out to eat lunch at the usual place, do my weekly grocery shopping, meet codgers at teatime, and smoke a pipe or two. A pipe that I will have with me is pictured above. It's a Big Ben made in Holland (36° Fahrenheit, 3° Celsius), which I've had for two decades. Evocative of warmer times, and a well-heated office in the Financial District. Both conditions rather missed right now.

Also, errands. Pharmacy. Bank. Hardware store.

I would much rather stay in bed with three blankets, a down comforter, and stuffed animals. Sadly, one should never smoke in bed because that's how elderly alcoholics set fire to their wine-soaked mattresses late at night in freezing cul-de-sacs in New York City and burn to death, which is why cigarette paper now has to have a chemical added to retard combustion if left unattended blame the U.S. cigarette manufacturers if you get cancer, and smuggled in ciggies are cleaner and better anyway, cheaper too, thanks health puritans in Sacramento, but primarily because my apartment mate would have questions if I spent the entire day stewing under my bedclothes puffing away like a darn hippie.

Life is tough. And it involves freezing.


Are those darn reservoirs filled yet?



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ERUPTIVE NOISE

Three to five minutes after the cop car drove off, having been parked there for quite a while to make sure the youth didn't start something, the explosions started. They had been waiting. Within ten minutes the intersection was packed with onlookers. Who were very largely not Chinese. A few years ago a robot-taxi had been set on fire there in celebration by a white skateboarder and possibly they were hoping for something similar. I had arrived an hour before the bookseller got down to Chinatown, at which time the hullabaloo had barely abated. Chinese New Year in San Francisco can be raucous.

That hour spent smoking my pipe was excellent.
Despite the thug-like young people.
And their giddiness.

See, there is an awning which protects me from the rain. Which had frequently come bucketing down throughout the day and into the night. Cold inclement weather.

An A-shirt under my T-shirt, over which a thick plaid shirt, a heavy woolen garment, a winter coat suitable for the far north, plus a scarf and gloves. If you do not disturb the pockets of warm stale air inside your cocoon it's reasonably warm. Quite bearable.

Remove a glove occasionally to utilize a pipe tamper.

My friend arrived in due course, having avoided being blown up by the riotous anarchists, and we headed to the burger place. While passing the karaoke joint we could see that it was crowded, which almost always means it's unbearable because of women singing shrilly and off-key. So we gave it a miss and headed over to bail-out bar where Tat Yee (a fellow pipe-smoker) was in conversation with Nick, who runs coffee out of some place nearby.
I greeted both gentlemen, introduced my companion, and we grabbed seats.

At times there would be another explosion from outside. Punctuation. After the Guiness and halfway through his Jameson's a woman who had been drinking coffee martinis and vodka with Red Bull animatedly engaged the bookseller in loud pointless rapid-fire conversation. Consequently we left earlier than usual. I did not get to drink my second cup of tea.
Home before midnight.

It's forty one or forty two degrees out there. Beastly.
And pouring down again.


Tomorrow will be a good day for my apartment mate, who is sick, to call in sick. Or perhaps go in and make sure they know she's sick so that she can do so the next day.
When she might feel better.



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WORLD SUPPER TRAVEL

Entirely without planning it I visited two great metropoli at lunch today and yesterday. Today's lunch (I had made sure last week that they would be open today) was preserved mustard green with pork and braised thick noodles (雪菜肉絲炆粗麵 'suet choi yiuk si man cou min'). Almost a cliché quintessence of Shanghai in a Hong Kong environment. Both the preserved mustard green (雪菜 "snow vegetable") and pork combo, and anything with that type of thick noodle (粗麵 "rough noodles") are typical at small eateries run by Shanghainese exiles in Tsimshatsui and on HK Island.

Yesterday's lunch was salt fish and preserved meat claypot rice (鹹魚臘味煲仔飯 'haam yü laap mei bou jai faan'). You can hardly get more Hong Kong Cantonese than that. Despite the fact that the restaurant was crowded with Mandarin speakers. For most of my meal I was the only person who had ordered in Cantonese there. The others were all young mainland tourists exploring C'town. Kudos to the lady working their for being able to speak Mandarin (to them), English to others), Toisanwaa to neighborhood people getting some quick food to go, and Cantonese (primarily to me). Usually I am not the only Cantonese speaker there.

Little claypots with savoury meaty or fishy stuff over rice are classic Hong Kong cold rainy weather comfort food. And salt fish (鹹魚 'haam yü') is very Hong Kong.
It's fermented. Strong. Not something most outsiders would like.
Dutchmen and Indonesians, perhaps.

It's been very cold and rainy for the past two days now. Here in SF we are not used to that. We are a tropical people, more accustomed to running in slo-mo into the surf, wearing our scanty hot hot hot bright red swim togs. Surely you've seen Bay Watch?
That's what life in California is all about.


It was frigid and wet down in Chinatown, and many places were closed for the first day of New Year. Darn near arctic. The only people wearing shorts were tourists, stupid kwailo. The hospital pharmacy (東華醫院藥房 'tung waa yi yuen yeuk fong') was closed too, because of the holiday (closed yesterday also, different holiday), but I did find some new special luxury cigarettes at one of my regular stops, tangerine peel flavour capsule slims (貴煙陳皮爆珠 'gwai yin chan pei baau chyu') manufactured by the Guizhou Tobacco Industrial Co., Ltd. (貴州中煙工業有限責任公司 'gwai jau jung yin gung yip yau haan gung si'). Exquisite.

Anyhow, I have enough latanoprost to last another day at least, and I've eaten well.
So all things considered, it has been quite a lovely day.
Forty four degrees Faharenheit right now.


The hot red swim togs stayed in storage.



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CHINESE NEW YEAR 2026

My apartment mate, Canto American, is dozing in her bedroom getting over the flu. I'm in the teevee room where the computers are, adjacent to my own digs, and wondering how it got so buggery cold. Only a few days ago we thought winter was mostly over, and then something blew in from the Pacific and nixed that idea. High forties, bouts of torrential rain, wind.

In observance of Chinese New Year, the apartment is only a little bit cleaned. My apartment mate would have done more, but she has the flu and feels off. Being a Dutch American who is not particularly neurotic about these things, I am not obligated to do anything. We are not written into the annals as a traditional part of the festivities. Although many of us remember the streets of the old quarter in Batavia nearly knee-deep in red scrap from the fireworks, and the sense of celebration. We weren't there, of course (being Dutch American), and most of us including myself were born long after the Orang Belanda had been forced to depart.
But still. It's a literary memory. With emotional resonance.

Here in San Francisco I particularly remember Chinatown sounding even from several blocks away like a warzone for over two weeks before Chinese New Year till up to five weeks afterwards. It was glorious. Then the city clamped down.
Less noisy, shorter period.

The illustration shows "happy new year" (新年快樂 'san nin faai lok') right to left in the script of over twenty centuries ago. Which I did this morning, because I like that style of calligraphy (古代文書法 'go toi man sü faat').

At least the house smells clean; I haven't been able to smoke inside for five days. She took Friday off because she was sick, yesterday she had off because of Washington's birthday, and she scheduled today off because of Chinese New Year. Plus I was at work for much of that time anyway, so it wasn't a big deal.

I did do some minor cleaning. And I got a haircut recently so at least I look presentable. I do not know if she did, but she looks very presentable all the time anyway, even when she's padding about in jammies and grumpy from the flu.

So to a very limited extent we're ready.


As an unmarried person I should be getting red envelopes filled with money from the clan elders, as a subtle reminder that this time next year I really should have changed status in that regard, but having been born white, Dutch American, and with no extensive network of close relatives deeply concerned about me contributing sons and grandsons, that never happens.
On the other hand I can gaily ponce around without being overly concerned about proper observation of all the protocols, occasionally happily surprising people by uttering appropriate festive greetings in impeccable Cantonese, and stay quietly on the sidelines enjoying the spectacle.

One minor problem. One is supposed to not wash on the first day. It's bad luck. But as a Dutch American pipesmoker you must assume that I might be a bit whiff if I did that.
It is best to no matter what not be offensive.
Happy New Year.



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BIG PETTY DO

My apartment mate is home today because it's Washington's Birthday and her workplace is closed in worshipful observance thereof. And she's getting over the flu, so she's still in her pajamas, sipping tea with ice cream melted into it. While listening to bridal disasters on the internet. I'm in my pajamas too, having slept late. I still haven't got dressed, but I'm planning to step out in a little while to walk around a bit and smoke my pipe avoiding people.
She will spend the entire day avoiding people.
She's good at that.

We're both cackling at times over some of the bridal stories and everything that went wrong. American brides seem to be psycho, and a society that encourages big flashy over-the-top bankruptcy when two people tie the knot may have issues.

We both agree that the proper response to a request to participate in the planning and organization merits just one answer: "Heck no, I will be in Thailand that year." But you don't even know when we're doing it! "I'll be in Thailand that year." Can you please organize the bachelorette party? "No, I shall be in Thailand that year!" Help put together the guest list? "Thailand." Go to the dress fittings with me? "Thailand." Bake the cake? "Thailand." Flowers? "Thailand." Can you recommend a photographer/videographer/dee-jay? "Thailand."

No to all of the above. Hire a damned wedding planner.
We will be in Thailand. And we're rabid.
Wild dogs couldn't drag us.
Thailand.

She is an attractive single Cantonese American woman, middle age-ish. I am NOT a single or attractive Cantonese American woman. Grumpy Dutch American male, and let's not focus on my age, shall we? Neither of us are in a relationship, or social enough to be asked to help anyone's flaming trip into glammy wedding hell. No bachelor or bachelorette party planning or participation. No bridesmaid or groomsman duties. No tacky friends likely to spiral uncontrollably into bride or groom zilla mode.

In fact, although there have been at least three weddings in my social circle in the last decade that I know of, I haven't been invited to any of them. My brilliant cousin's kid the movie director got married about fifteen or twenty years ago. I was invited, but didn't go.
He's gotten divorced (didn't attend that either) and is now hitched to someone else.
Which I didn't find out until last year.


My apartment mate has strong words about the wives of two of her brothers.
So she isn't likely to willingly attend any weddings ever again.

Neither of us have ever been to Thailand.
But it's always an option.



The more I think about it, despite her not liking spicy dishes particularly much, myself having a distaste for hot climates, and neither of us liking tourists -- especially the sex-obsessed vulgarians and Jeffrey Epsteins that flock to Thailand -- Thailand would be a damned fine place to spend a year avoiding American weddings. A lot of people there do that.

It's almost like the country was meant for it.




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A HUMMING SOUND

Neither Neil nor Nick was present, and consequently missed out on a splendid social event. The first was feeling poorly, the second was at his wife's painting exhibition lendind moral support during her sparkle time. She paint's very well, and deserves the attention. He's a pipesmoker, and probably snuck out to quietly fume while comuning with nature or an infestation. Just a guess.

Nick likes Vapers (Virginia and Perique blends), and I was keen to see what he thought of a tobacco I put on the table for testing. Which had twenty percent Perique. Which is nice, but too much for my liking, although I once did come up with a concoction containing ten percent for a friend. Four to eight percent is quite enough, and really makes its presence felt.

Still, a dozen gentlemen showed up for the meeting, despite the constant rain outside, gloomy absence of sunlight, and noisy old farts in the backroom arguing about politics, pornographic matters, and dentists in Thailand.

The latter crowd was far enough away that we could safely ignore them and their patriotic magaite spew. There were beverages and edibles. And I think they all enjoyed themselves. Plus decently timed old man bladders which prevented pile-ups at the bathroom.
Which is something to fear.

There was preening, ruffling, and a discreet amount of strutting. Mentions of classic shapes and brands. Nothing outrageous, but murmurs of appreciation. Some mention of panning for gold up in the Sierras, geology, the commissary on base, crossing the equator, and distant lands some of them had in common. Unlike the putrid rightwingers in the backroom; no loud voices, no foul language. Altogether a very enjoyable meeting of the local pipe club.

I had brought my longest Canadian and quietly ponced around with it while doing needful things, nothing flashy or egotrippy, just looking like one of the background characters in a Tennessee Williams play during the fifties.

In fact, I often feel like I'm in a stage show featuring big egos, eccentricity, insanity, and white trash behaviour, but that's mostly because of the fellows in the backroom, with whom I largely do not speak anymore.


So it was refreshing to have civilized people in house.



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THE DAMPENING

Sometimes you can know someone on Facebook for eight years before they casually say something so staggeringly Christian that you sit back, stunned, and wonder what the heck. Which someone did yesterday. It was not a post I was tagged in, fourteen others were, but nevertheless. He added to the effect by in response to another person's comment giving an opinion that was even more berserk. Exceedingly Christian. As well as likely to sit well with both the far right and the far left. Intolerably bigoted.
So I unfriended him.

Faugh.

Where are the lions when you need them?


One expects a certain amount of goobusness from people older than Grampa Simpson, and while I myself am approaching that status, talking fondly of the age when we all tied onions to our belts (as was the syle at the time), but good lord. Worst fossil in the retirement home. Occasionally someone has to be kicked off the Island with very great force.
Pitchforked into the pit of worms and left to dry in the hot sun.

There's repulsive, and then there's repulsive.

From a reasonably educated and well-read person I expected far, far better. Were he a coworker I would report him to HR and if necessary quit the company in protest.



In other news, we're set to be inundated with one tenth of an inch of rain per hour over the next several days. Oh no what shall we do? This is a disaster of biblical proportions. Sidewalks damp, soggy dogs, slickety and minor wetness. Call out the Feds.

Blanketed with dampness. Several days.
One tenth of an inch per hour.
Or considerably less.


I was planning to work on my tan.



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ROMANCE AND GOOD FOOD

For the life of me I cannot figure out why there are so many people in town. The bus back to the city was packed, and traffic was at a crawl from before the bridge. Maybe they heard that unlike many other cities we're friendly and outgoing, and love tourists. I know they didn't hear that from me. Except at the best of times, I'm unbending, unfriendly, and unsocial.
The end of the workday is not the best of times.

It's the middle of February. Yes, it's Valentines Day. That can't be it. San Francisco is not about love. Don't y'all need to got Disneyland or Las Vegas for that? If anything, San Francisco is about serious commitment and drug-fuelled paranoia.

Who are these people, and why are they here?


After a full days work, my right leg is temperamental. Slightly swollen, oedematic near the toes, and feels a bit too tight in my skin. It twitches and jerks. Not so much that anyone would notice if they weren't sitting next to me, and I try to make sure no one does unless they are pretty and intelligent looking, although that would, unfortunately, add a surreal note to their trip to The States. The probably wake up weeping.

"Yeah, everything was lovely till we got to San Franciso, and there was this twitchy man on the bus across the bridge cussing sotto voce in something that sounded like hairballs .....
The nuts are everywhere there!"

Your San Francisco vacation should be both memorable and nightmarish.

It's only fair. You got to enjoy East Coast, Midwestern, and good old Southern hospitality, and eat fabulous things like deepfried pickled pigs knuckle elsewhere in the country, plus the sixty four ounce steaks and chicago dogs -- served greasily in a red hot iron skillet like everything else there that's worth eating -- and you know that flat earthers come here to watch the water flow over the edge into the abyss, so you might as well remember the good things. All the best people in this country have little tics. It's what makes us lovable.

The deepfried pickled pigs knuckle just didn't do it.

Here we can only dream of such things.

Candle light supper food.

Romantic.



Here it is, over an hour after I returned home, and my right foot still feels like a sumbitch. You can probably understand why on my first day off I don't get much accomplished, and sit on my xxx all day. I'd vote for my foot if it were running for congress just to get it out of town.
No, no townhalls, just stay in Washington and be a pain in the gand there. It's fine.



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CHANCES FOR STELLAR KARMA

This coming Tuesday marks the beginning of the year of the horse, as well as Pancake Day, Shrove Tuesday, and the last day of Carneval. The only one applicable in SF is of course the first. Last year one of the intersections in C'town was alive for six hours with explosions. Which was staggering. The town where I used to live celebrates Carneval, and this year will do so in the snow. Which means that Northerners, not used to dancing off the humongous volumes of beer, will fall asleep in snowbanks and snuff it if not carted back inside.
Which tells you that dancing is healthy.

My apartment mate is well aware of this. No, she won't be celebrating, and she doesn't drink at all, but for the past fortnite or so she's been keenly watching 'A Chorus Line'. This follows 'Gypsy'. And has recently been augmented by 'Cabaret'. All three of those movies feature dancing. And singing. Even now I can hear the opening act of Caberet emanating from her room. So far she hasn't done any dancing yet, but I'm just waiting for the moment she discovers the snow drifts.

Oh wait. We never have those. This is SF.


During Carneval one is supposed to dress up in motley, the original party rags, with lots of colours, presumably so they can find you lying in the snowdrifts.

Brand new bright red clothing would stand out a mile. But unlike Northern Europeans, Chinese people are not notorious alcoholics, and don't need to be found in snowdrifts.

Still, if you want to go out there searching for drunken Northerners, be my guest.
If you're cold, they're cold. Bring them inside.

It's the humane thing to do.



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A LOVELY WINTER SUNSET

Why does one go down to Chinatown the day after having done all one's grocery shopping? Why, to get a refill of a medication that treats deep vein thrombosis and pulmonary emboli and prevents blood clots in atrial fibrillation and following leg surgery, such as an angioplasty on the dextral lower extremity. Surely every one does that? I'm on the substance for a year. We're one quarter of the way through. It may cause bleeding, among other things, and it has not yet been determined whether it's safe to take this medication while pregnant or breastfeeding. Do not expect any startling news on that score.

One also goes down there for more teabags, because one is low at work, and to nosh on some dimsum. Which alerted me to the fact that very many American tourists are overweight, and they really need to shorten the tables so the wild buffalo can roam.
Maybe they're all from Texas.

The last reason is to smoke a lovely Loewe & Co. straight billiard in one's possession while wandering around remarking under one's breath that out of towners really are a pain in the gand, and bahut batsurat too. But that's neither here nor there, and must be taken for granted. As one always does anyway.

Then one catches the bus back home, and relights upon disembarking. Upon turning the corner one checks to see if the neighborhood street person is lurking at the far intersection, knowing that if he is he will see one from half a block away and come bounding up hill grinning for the two dollars one gives him nowadays. It used to be just one.
Consider inflation. And the current price of a cup of coffee.

Lunch was excellent. The weather has improved since earlier in the week. It is still light out. And the pipe filled with red Virginias and a touch of Perique proved a very enjoyable smoke. Preambular to a cup of tea.

You know, during the war, tea and tobacco kept the spirits of British people up. Still does. It's what makes life in England bearable. That and black pudding (kind of like haggis, same vile). Perhaps if those angry Magats in Texas had gone into the kitchen to fix a cuppa and a fry-up, instead of watching Bad Bunny and getting their panties in a bunch, or watching Kid Rock's crappy all American hootenany and getting their knickers in a twist, they'd be happier today. Even if they do have to smoke Marlboros instead of decent ciggies.

Only one of them is a pipesmoker that I know.
And he has a sense of humour.
Probably voted blue.

I'm guessing that they don't have street people in Texas.
Either they ate them all, or there are no streets there.


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