DESERVEDLY!

Per "reliable" sources, the syphilitic old bastard died of massive amounts of horse tranqs, cocaine, quaaludes, and viagra, and rough play with ropes. It is as yet entirely unknown whether that was with boys, girls, or large slavic women named Ivana.
Cheap bourbon also played a role. Lots of it.

As it often does. Republicans.

Anyhow, the coroner's office has put a stake through his heart to make sure he doesn't rise again, and plans are to put a massive slab of concrete over the grave just in case.


Our beloved leader is heartbroken. Heartbroken! One less slavish cretin to genuflect. Oh, the sadness. Heartbroken! Stevie, Cashew, and Little Petey are comforting him with hamberders as we speak! And biggie fries! Diet coke! Oh!


The other slime creature is being kept "alive" with embalming fluid and electrical jolts.
They've plasticized his face to make him look younger.

Don't breathe. They can smell that.

To quote our beloved and sanctified dear leader, bless his shrivelled heart: "Good, I’m glad he’s dead. He can no longer hurt innocent people!"


All over the red states people are in mourning, weeping, wailing, and whipping themselves with chains and thorny branches. There are public outpourings of grief.
Especially in the great state of South Carolina.
Which is an outpost of hell.


Have some more cheap bourbon, fellas.
Pour some out for your homie.



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MOST OF THE REPUBLICAN PARTY

Here it is, over a day later, and I'm still smiling because Lindsey Graham is dead. The only sad thing about it is that most of us are too far away to go drunkenly piss on his grave. He was an utterly useless piece of "garbage", like many others in the Republican Party, and sane people are hoping for a trifecta, at the very least. And that the next few months get brightened up by Republican funerals.

Several Republican governors also need to go.

And in the same way too. Choking during an unspeakable act.


The fact that people like that keep getting sent to Washington shows that the corruption and good old boy network runs deep and that we may need to do something incredibly violent about the billionaires that keep supporting obedient repulsive right wing puppets, as well as the fundy Christians who cheer, gibber, and obey. In China and Iran, people like Lindsey Graham would have been taken out and shot long ago, and in actual living democracies scum like that would not have even stood a chance of getting elected.

There are, unfortunately, a large number of murderous fascists that need to be strung up.
Or treated like mediaeval pontifs; tortured, dismembered, strangled.
Parts of their bodies cut off, corpses abused.

Lindsey Graham was a loathsome degenerate who wholeheartedly supported bloodshed and kissed-up to reprehensible foreign scum. A thoroughly despicable blister, a blot on humanity and the South, and the world is a better brighter place now that Lindsey has croaked. He had so little left to live for anyway, having plumbed the depths of depravity, and is now deservedly being tormented and burned.


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ACTIVE KIDNEYS AND OTHER THINGS

Pipe club met today. Only eight people, but I was up to my elbows. though I did manage to clean three big pipes of good makes the size of which said that the previous owner had a miniscule manhood and was desperate to compensate. Big BIG pipes, tiny TINY manhood. People like that should really smoke mango passionfruit chocolate cavendish so that the rest of us know to stay the heck away. Look, if you were smoking those pipes in public I should be embarassed to be anywhere near you. If you smoked that tobacco in public I would be nowhere in sight.

"Oh I just love the smell of your tobacco, it reminds me of my granddad!"

Lady, your granddad was a ruddy pervert. He probably loved Clan.

On the other hand, my pipetobacco brings an Oxford man to mind. See, it's civilized. Would go well with a spot of sherry. While reading a very literate murder mystery. After tea time.

If the author was masculine, probably a Balkan blend. If she was a lady, more than likely a nice aged Virginia or a refined flake. With just a wee bit of Perique.
Ogden's Gold Block, if they're undecided.
This is just a theory.


Perhaps the pipe club would be interested in me giving a little lecture about this. Lord knows, we've happily heard about steamship races, Scottish distilleries, the Boer War, gold panning in the Sierras, small automobiles, curry, kidney stones, boat building ...

Shortly after I finished lunch miss A.A. came by to see me. We talked about Seiko watches, delightful black market Chinese cigarettes with a dried tangerine peel frangrance flavour capsule, and various things like that. So that was enjoyable. Mr. Y. was also there. My pipe expertise was needed, What kind of pipe is this? Is it Danish? Indeed, it's a Stanwell Golden Sovereign, characteristic shape, one or two letters of the stamping are still visible. And both of those GBDs are extraordinairy.


Most of the working day I was zipped to the gills on caffeine. Two cups of coffee before leaving home, about six or seven cups of tea and some more coffee while at work.
I'm home now, with a cup of coffee within arms reach.
Probably crashing soon.


Coffee, as you know, is a very efficient diuretic.
Tea far less so.



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DROPPING EYES

It does not feel particularly cold outside, there is no wind. Birds are tweeting and there is a lighting in the morning sky toward the East, over Oakland. The world seemed a much better and brighter place. I had actually gotten up in the middle of the night to drop Latanoprost into my eyes, guiltily, because I assured my eye-doctor that I'm religious about that.
Then slept for a few more hours after.

The pipe for the early walk is a Peterson army-mounted prince shape, well-defined briar with that depth to the wood that shows it came from one of their original sources and was made way back when. The old days.

I noted as I walked up hill that there are three cars in my block parked illegally. Two of three have wheels not curved toward the curb, which indicates out-of-towners.

It seems like a lovely Spring morning.


I have no idea when my apartment mate went to bed yesterday, as even with two cups of coffee after dinner I totally collapsed. Which rather tells me I am no longer as sparky as I was in my teens and twenties. Old goat needs his sleepy-sleep. Can't party all night anymore.

When I still lived in North Beach there were some truly lovely early mornings with scarcely anybody about, the toasty fragrance of roasting coffee beans from the Trieste and the Roma perfuming the dawn air, a bright slivery grey quality to the streets, faintly whisps of French cigarettes from random Bohemians still up from the night before ... walking around with an onion tied to their belt as was the style at the time.....


There had been a dream in which I was arguing the liability issue of a pedestrian about to cross the road in front of a bus. The driver had indicated that she should go ahead and walk, she had beckoned 'no no go ahead', and the driver then waved at her that she had the right of way. If she crossed at that moment and he had driven forward, or at any time before it was absolutely certain that the pedestrian was out of the way and not going to dart into the middle of the road, that would have been law-suit material. What the old lady needed to do was turn around and step back from the curb to clearly show that indeed she was not going to step in front of the vehicle.

I could palp the irritation of the driver at the old lady.
You've shown intent, now follow up dammit.
We can wait all day here.

Easily damaged flesh husk versus warm hard steel.
It's something lawyers mouthwater over.


By the way: I am not a legal man.



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NO SALT FISH THERE

In Palo Alto this afternoon at the ceramic event, it was marginally too warm. At present, in San Francisco, it is marginally too cold. Why can't the weather be always 'just right'? This is northern California, which is supposed to have the best climate in the world! Then I look at the temperatures in London (eighty plus degrees), Hong Kong (hovering around ninety), and Karachi (over ninety). Reykjavik is around the mid fifties. Which is probably too hot by their standards. It's cooking the fermented seal blubber. Can't have that! Takes away that delightful waxy sliminess which makes it divine.


New York city is low eighties. No wonder they eat hot dogs.
Instead of waxy nice slimy fermented seal blubber.
Which they would, if it wasn't spoiled.
Hot dogs are a poor substiture.
It's suffering, is what.


On the metro from the trainstation back to Chinatown I listened in on two women talking about salt fish and pork. I would have interjected that fatty pork would be best for the dish they were discussing, except my Cantonese isn't good enough to fully convey what I want. Still, fatty pork. And slivered ginger on top. Perfect.

My apartment mate and I went down to the ACGA Clay & Glass Festival in Palo Alto, as we do every year. Bus, metro, train, bus. And back. Great fun. Some years it's boiling down there, well over eighty Fahrenheit, this time it was quite bearable, mid seventies.
Still probably too hot for the delightful fermented seal blubber.

On the other hand, steamed chunks of fatty pork with chopped salt fish and ginger would have been quite lovely, over rice with some lo fo tong on the side. And sambal.


Several suburban areas between SF and Palo Alto look like dreary industrial settlements. If you disembark there, watch out for werewolves. Vampires don't come out till after sundown. Werewolves operate under no such restriction.



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IT MAKES FOR INSULATION

Lunch yesterday, unsurprisingly, was dumplings. And, for a bit of heat, sliced bittermelon sautéed with chilies, garlic, and ground peanuts. It was delicious. Didn't bother leaving the house much. No need, and too darn cold. You know I hate hot weather, but the climate here presently is overcompensating. Oh my Nelly yes.

Fifty eight degrees, mostly sunny. With a cold wind from the ocean for much of the day.

Two jaunts outside with a pipe for a walk around the neighborhood. First one in the early morning of what felt like a bright winter day, with a cold breeze around the top of Nob Hill. After which I retired to the completely imaginary library (teevee and computer room) to huddle by a non-existent fireplace with a second cup of coffee. Second one late afternoon.
A-shirt, Tee-shirt, flannel shirt, an overgarment boasting of a fictitious football team, and overcoat. My feet felt like they were freezing. Should have worn two pairs of socks.


A sandblasted zulu Savinelli De Luxe filled with aged Virginias.


Actually, the teevee and computer room, like the entire rest of the apartment, is more or less a library. There are bookshelves in three rooms, book boxes in the hallway.
And an entire reference library under my bed.

Sadly, I do not have an encyclopaedia of bugs. Although before the internet that would have been a more grievous lack. Now I can find out everything I need to know about creepy crawlies on the computer. As well as many other subjects.


Homalodisca vitripennis, also know as the 'glassy winged sharpshooter', is a Southern gentlemen, like so many other pests. Probably, like Rhett Butler, lives on mint juleps.

Votes elsewhere than he alledgedly resides, because of marital issues.

Now being given a warm welcome in Northern California.
As a sudden visitor to our climes.
A new permanent resident.
Confound it all.



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WELL, YOU CHOSE THAT

It is grimly amusing that Glasgow, which proved itself the most homicidal psychopath loving city in Britain in the months after October 7, staging near-daily pro-murder rallies on behalf of Hamas, is now showing the other side of their arse by becoming a by-word for racialism and riots against the unwhite. Kind advice to American tourists: please don't go there to visit if you are unwhite. Unless you are pro-Hamas, in which case please do. Oh wait, probably better not, seeing as all unwhites probably look alike to the bloodthirsty Celtics, unless you wear clearly identifiable markings that show your sympathy with the Scots, like, for instance, a kefiyeh. Preferably a blood-stained kefiyeh.

South Africa, which like Scotland massively supports homicidal psychopaths, turns out to not like unwhites either. Foreign unwhites. The locals there are busily driving their version of guest workers from their homes and jobs, breaking down doors and brutalizing people. Soweto has become a no-go zone. Much like Glasgow and Belfast.


These are all wonderful places filled with vibrant hospitable people keen to show off their culture and achievements. Truly examples to the rest of the world.
Arts, crafts, songs. And deeply spiritual values.

They don't have dumplings.
Dumplings!

If you go to a Chinese supermarket here in the United States, the most well-represented categories of ready foods in the freezer section are dumplings and fishballs. A vast variety. Yesterday. while shopping I was quite hypnotized by the choices and spent a full twenty minutes wondering which fabulous offering I should choose.

Not surprisingly, the most well-represented category of ready foods in my freezer section are also dumplings and fishballs. She likes fishballs, I am incredibly fond of dumplings. She is too, and I occasionally have a fishball. Neither Glasgow nor Soweto are known for excellent fishballs or dumplings. Or, in fact, any fishballs or dumplings at all. How sad! It's a defect in their characters. They really ought to do something about that. Is there, really, any point in visiting either place if what they're primarily known for is violent xenophobia?

You could just visit Dixie if that is what you wanted.



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PLENTY OF JEWS

The statement "I know a lot of Jews who agree with me" to counter the accusation of bigotry, which appeared in several on-line discussions of the trannies recently hounding Scott Wiener out of Dolores Park, stinks on the face of it. When that is your defense, or any part of it, you're basically saying "I'm not a racist, why, some of my BEST friends are ... "

I'm sure you do know a lot of Jews. The fact is that you ONLY know Jews with whom you agree. That's a choice you made.


And you've basically shown that any discussion with you is pointless.
Your conversational skills don't go beyond dickhead.

So kindly get hosed. Bhainchot.


Naturally, after reading the comments, I decided not to engage. All relevant points had been made, as had all irrelevent points, and the number of people saying they weren't bigots in either direction was predictably astounding. And apparently, accusing trannies of colour of being anti-Semites or racists is incorrect, hurtful, and narrow-minded. Why, doing so was colonialist and just demonstrated white priviledge!

So we're not on the same page. No bridges are being built, no common ground established, and there is no search for allies or attempt to demonstrate that we're all in this together. Because we're not. Given their rhetoric, I want absolutely nothing to do with them.

Being outraged at injustice is a choice.
So is deciding to be apathetic.



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CRACKED MARBLES

Every time President Donald John Trump mentions Greenland I keep thinking of that scene in Fear And Loathing where Johnny Depp, scrambled on chemicals, insists "we must have a suite!" The major difference being, of course, that Johnny Dep was acting, and actually has all of his marbles. And would probably be a far better president than Donald John.

Who, at a NATO meeting recently, convinced everybody that like Uncle Duke he was on the floor whacking huge hair bats with a steel ruler.

[That's a Doonesbury reference, for everyone born in this century.]


You know, I spent a number of years in Berkeley, have lived in San Francisco for a long time now, and work in Marin dealing with old men who in their youth were hippies, or garage rock 'stars', and "creative types", or sometimes all three. So I am very familiar with insane people and folks not perfectly in touch with reality. Out-of-synch individuals. And naturally, like very many people here, I avoid eye-contact when in public because I am not keen to have conversations with unstable folks. The labile few. Karen-spawn.

All of whom voted for the Republicans back in 2024.
Because they feared those huge hairy bats.
Or illegal outer-space communists.

If I were ever to visit the red states, it is extremely likely that my horse-pucky meter would promptly explode from all the idiocy there. Feather brainery everywhere. It fills the air.
So far better not. They come to San Francisco and visit us in summer anyhow.
Blissfully unable to use sidewalks or find a bathroom.
We're so damned lucky.


Tourist from NATO countries and the "Islamic Republic of Japan" politely step around them.



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HALF A DOZEN CUPS OR MORE

Do you want it crispy-crunchy or soft and chewy? These are questions which, as a pudgy non-Chinese teenage person, you might wish to ask yourself before placing your order. Or more likely not, seeing as the chicken feet are offered for sale in non-English. The tangy ones have a crisp coating, the savoury ones and the hot and spicy feet look like they have the regular stewy texture. But you went in for a nice cold matcha taro boba tea with sguiggly jellies added, or some such crap, and you really aren't interested in anything else there except the popcorn shrimp and chicken nuggets.

You really should try those chicken feet.
A good dietary source of collagen.
They're great for your skin.

I myself have never eaten there. Places filled with giddy teenagers hepped on sugar just don't appeal to me, but I read the foods mini-poster advertised in the window with great interest after we left a nearby drinking establishment. As one would. If the picture is appealing and one can read Chinese. As, naturally, one can.

The place where I had eaten lunch several hours before does not have boba drinkies. They have claypot rice. Which on a cold day like today precisely hit the spot. My yellow eel claypot rice (黃鱔煲仔飯 'wong sin pou jai faan') was divine. Dab of chilipaste each bite. Gorgeous.

It is mentioned in English on the menu, probably because there are a few local old-school Toishanese American-borns who don't really read Chinese, but I suspect that there are not a whole lot of non-Cantonese who order it. Almost certainly no Mandarin speakers.
Who, like most Caucasians, are missing out.

Drank an entire big pot of tea.
Ended up plenty wired.

A person from the Netherlands or Belgium who likes 'paling' would be well-advised to search it out. Might be the best meal you have in the United States. Change your whole impression of the place. There is good stuff to eat here after all!

Naturally I smoked my pipe afterwards while wandering down several blocks to a bus stop in the Financial District.


In the evening I was back in Chinatown waiting for the bookseller. This is the beginning of his weekend, and it doesn't sound like he has any pressing plans. He strained or bruised his leg playing pinball, it's going to be rather cold for the next week or so, and world cup matches very likely will keep him at home.

The karaoke place sounded problematic as we passed. Some kind of yodeling. Painful, like a tortured marketing department female. Life is too short for such self-abuse.

On the route to the bus stop after drinks at the other place we became aware of a man yelling a play by play of his progress up the street on the opposite side.

Sometimes waiting for the bus at night is the longest ten minutes of your life.
Cold winds, skeevy blisters, and testimony about Jesus.



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IT SOUNDS LIKE CHOKING ON HAIRBALLS

One of my friends on Facebook asked how Flemish and Dutch differ. So, as a comparison, here is the same text (from wikipedia) given in English, Dutch, and Limburgian (a linguistic clusterfudge similar to what I spoke on the street for sixteen years which is, alledgedly, somewhat like Flemish). As of this writing, there is no Flemish in Google Translate.

ENGLISH
The province of Brabant is a Belgian province with its capital Brussels that existed from 1830 to 1995. Its scope is approximately equivalent to the province of South Brabant during the United Kingdom of the Netherlands. In 1989, the Brussels Capital Region was established, but at that time it was still part of the province of Brabant. In 1995, the province of Brabant was split into three parts, the Dutch-speaking Flemish Brabant, the French-speaking Walloon Brabant, and the bilingual Brussels Capital Region became a separate administrative division.

DUTCH
De provincie Brabant is een Belgische provincie met Brussel als hoofdstad, die bestond van 1830 tot 1995. De omvang ervan is ongeveer gelijk aan die van de provincie Zuid-Brabant in het Verenigd Koninkrijk der Nederlanden. In 1989 werd het Brussels Hoofdstedelijk Gewest opgericht, maar dit bleef onderdeel van de provincie Brabant. In 1995 werd de provincie Brabant opgesplitst in drie delen: het Nederlandstalige Vlaams-Brabant, het Franstalige Waals-Brabant en het tweetalige Brussels Hoofdstedelijk Gewest, dat een aparte bestuurlijke eenheid werd.

LIMBURGIAN
De provincie Brabant is ‘n Belsje provincie mèt de hoofstad Brussel dee bestoont vaan 1830 tot 1995. De umvang is ongeveer geliek aon de provincie Zuid-Brabant in ‘t Vereineg Keuninkriek vaan Nederland. In 1989 woort de hoofstad vaan Brussel opgeriech, mer maakde nog sjteeds deil oet vaan de provincie Brabant. In 1995 woort de provincie Brabant in drie deile verdeild: de Nederlandssprekinde Vlaamse Brabant, de Fransssprekinde Walloense Brabant en de twietalige Brussels hoofstadregio woorte ‘n apaarte bestuurleke afdeiling.


NOTE: We spoke American English at home, Dutch in school, and Kempisch dialect on the street. My father was not entirely conversant in that last, my mother's mastery of Dutch was far from perfect. There are some weird tonalisms in Kempish, FYI.

First paragraph about Amsterdam in West Flemish on Wikipedia, as well as google English and Dutch:

WEST VLAMS
Amsterdam is 'n hoofdstad en grotste gemêente van Holland. De stad ligt in de provinsje Nôord-Holland an de riviere den Amstel en an 't meer 't Ey. Der weunn oungeveer 918.000 menschn in de gemêente en oungeveer 896.000 menschn in de stad (2023). De stad is administratief ounderverdêeld in zeevn stadsdêeln die were zyn ounderverdêeld in wykn.
Amsterdam dankt zyn noame an de liggienge by e dam die angeleid is in de 13ste êeuwe in den Amstel.

ENGLISH
Amsterdam is the capital and largest municipality of the Netherlands. The city is located in the province of North Holland on the rivers Amstel and Lake Ey. The population of the municipality is about 918,000 and the city is about 896,000 (2023). The city is administratively divided into seven city districts which are further subdivided into villages.
Amsterdam takes its name from the construction of a dam built in the 13th century in the Amstel.

DUTCH
Amsterdam is de hoofdstad en de grootste gemeente van Nederland. De stad ligt in de provincie Noord-Holland, aan de rivier de Amstel en het IJ. De gemeente telt ongeveer 918.000 inwoners en de stad zelf ongeveer 896.000 (cijfers uit 2023). Bestuurlijk is de stad onderverdeeld in zeven stadsdelen, die weer zijn onderverdeeld in wijken.
Amsterdam dankt zijn naam aan de aanleg van een dam in de Amstel in de 13e eeuw.


The old province of Brabant included what is Now the Dutch province of North Brabant along with the Belgian provinces of Antwerp, Limburg, and Brabant (South Brabant) with the capital city Brussels.


The illustration is of the 'Fluffy Tailed Tit Babbler' (Macronus ptilosus), a bird from absolutely nowhere near any of that. It lives its life happily unbecomered by gibbering Germanics in the lowland swamp-jungles of Indonesia, Malaysia, and Thailand.

The burung rimba pongpong.



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HEAR THE NEENER IN MY VOICE

Yesterday, while the United States were having their glutaei maximi handed to them on a shiny platter, this blogger was enjoying a lovely repast down in Chinatown at a place where the few customers didn't have any interest in Yankee sportive galumphing. Further down the street, as I passed puffing my post prandial pipe, it was quite different. Loud hoots, outside screens, sweating despair. It was a lovely meal. A quiet place where they know me, good food, one or two familiar faces, and plenty of milk tea.

The world seemed very far away.
So did abject misery.


The pipe is an old Dunhill, bent billiard, shape 56.
Very hard briar. Excellent smoke.


Not the warmest of San Francisco summer days, less than sixty degrees, slight wind. A city with small pockets of sportsfans becoming more and more unhappy as the game progressed. An excellent flue-cured tobacco blend.
Something Simenon might have smoked.
Or Captain Haddock.

Good triumphed over evil, despite Trump and Infantino's dastardly meddling. Belgium won against the USA. Decisively. Romped all over the Yanks. It was 4 to 1. Kicked their ass. Beat them to a red, white, and blue pulp. Thoroughly and deservedly. Les frites ont triomphé des bâtonnets de pomme de terre ramollis. Cuisine sank junkfood. The sturdy Flemish peasantry defeated the force of ghouls, and golden trinkets will be hung in the church of our lady; the beauty and strength of that great army was turned into a refuse-pit, and the glory of the Trumpite rabble made dung and worms. Dung and worms.

Civilization over barbarism.

Neener neener neener. Neener neener neener. Neener neener neener. Neener neener neener. Neener neener neener. Neener neener neener. Neener neener neener. Neener.

Bitches.



FAIR PLAY
[Clarification added for the terminally dense at 8:38 AM.]

What really gets my goat is that the United States cheated to get Balogun back in the game, and the United States Soccer team didn't object at all. Which means that anybody with even a gramme of honesty and decency could not in good conscience support the team. What other examples of cheating will come to light? Is this going to be like that Lance Armstrong thing where it turns out that America's champion was a lying cheating dishonest p.o.s. for years? And what does this say about the president, his officials, inner circle, and FIFA?
Well, I already thought that they were human garbage.
I did not need anymore confirmation.




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PRECISELY THE WRONG STUFF

With Donald Trump interfering in the red card decision, and Infantino showing his true colours and acquiescing, there is no way in Gob's green hell that I will support the United States team. Furthermore, this should disqualify the United States from the rest of of the World Cup. If the United States wins today it will be because Trump and Fifa cheated.
So naturally I'm supporting Les Frites. As should all decent sportsfans.

Naturally I cannot support England for the rest of this stupid tournament (screw them, they've become the most bigoted racist failed state in Europe), and Argentina is an obvious 'no'. The place is filled with cheating wife-abusing Fascists and child molesters, much like Paraguay, and despite what I think of England, the Falklands must remain British.

So basically, it has to be Morocco and Belgium.
Places with lots of Dutch speakers.
And really good food.


Well, Norway too. Even though per John Cleese their food is brutal andd bizarre to the point of nightmares, and everyone knows Scandinavians don't really speak civilized tongues but mostly sound like the Swedish Chef anyway.

Hurra för Norge! Rad, rad, rad!

In other personal opinion based orneriness, I shall be voting for Scott Wiener. This is something I did not originally intend to do. I wasn't going to back him, but after what happened in Dolores Park (and a few other incidents, as well as the earlier support Chakrabarti got from the dark side), I damned well will.

You know something, San Francisco, some of you are real assholes.
Much like Dublin, Glasgow, London, and Manchester.
Or Argentina and Paraguay.

Kindly get stuffed.



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GOBLESS HEATHEN!

After reading everything that went wrong this past weekend there are a number of places where I'm glad I wasn't. Washington DC, huge parts of the centre and eastern areas, the Presidio and anywhere near the Golden Gate Bridge during fireworks hours, and, naturally, hospital emergency rooms on either side of the admissions desk. More than ever I know what can go wrong with hands and minds.

Heatwaves, freak storms, failing airconditioning units, crowds of Pete Hegseth's and Stephen Miller's fanboys marching with confederate flags, rowdy halfwits drinking too much beer, and, of course, Democratic Pinko weather control ruining Trump's grand celebration, which is why we need a ballroom. And an arch.

According to one Trump-worshipping Karen, liberal operatives used glowing green space cancer brought back from the moon a few months ago and secretely stored at a Pepsi Cola bottling plant in New Hampshire to poison the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool.

Don't drink the water, it has nano-chips!


I have also been told, authoritatively, that people in the entire world celebrated our two hundred and fiftieth anniversary EXCEPT for gobless communist heathens.
Which means, I guess, that I am a gobless communist heathen.

Sorry, I spent much of the past few days working. No time or inclination to celebrate bupkes.
I am off for the next few days, and will make myself happy with Chinese food and avoiding tourists from the rest of the country, as any grumpy Dutch American (gobless communist heathen) would naturally do. Also caffeinated beverages and pipe tobacco.

Because San Francisco has the best climate in the entire United States, I advise all grumpy Dutch Americans (i.e. gobless communist heathens) to move here as soon as they can. That way we can chase the Anglo thieves into the ocean and torch their settlements, much like we did in Ambon, Batavia, and Malacca four centuries ago. The food is excellent, the natives are friendly, and the water is drinkable. Yes, there are too many churches, and the Anchor Steam Beer factory closed down, plus there are bigots on the local ballteam, but these are minor issues, and probably easily rectified with blunderbusses, pikes, and halberds.


It will be a new golden age. Trust me.



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SPORTING INFANTS

As is traditional my friend the bookseller will have walked home from work all the way in the Hong Kong landlord section of the city to his spacious digs on Telegraph Hill yesterday, as he always does when public transit is filled with drunken twenty-something yutzes on Holidays. New Year, Saint Patrick's Day, Cinco De Mayo, July Fourth, Halloween, Santa Con.

I have also walked that entire distance, we have a beautiful city and it's well worth it, but now that I've had the angioplasty on the lower dexter extremity I am slightly more conscious of the arthritic state of leg joints on that side. So I don't.

Do you really want a Dutch American cussing in a multilingual bad-tempered mumble-stream on the San Francisco streets? Think of the children! No, I didn't think so.


According to the language maps one of my native languages is something very similar to the North Limburgian dialects. With some influences from Antwerpian Flemish, because many isoglosses run right through the area where I grew up.

[Wwhen I was two we went there from Southern California. So I grew up near where an ancestor (fellow named 'Gompert') lived in the twelfth century. Way before we went to New Amsterdam in the sixteen hundreds.]

Which probably explains why I'm currently rereading Gaius Julius Caesar and laboriously re-learning Latin. It's as good a common tongue as any. And persuading you all to learn Kempisch has sadly proven darn well impossible. And verdomme.

Y'all far too darn stubborn.
I hate that.

According to the guide books, the area in question is beautiful, with very gentle undulations, idyllic villages, and placid streams. Life is more Burgundian there, more in tune with culture, traditions, and good living. The guide books say nothing, not a darn thing, about the density and unintelligibility of Brabanders. Or that it resembles Yorkshire without any Engish.

Or the fact that most Netherlanders can drink Yanks under the table.
For which they've trained since childhood.
Single digits.


Think of them as being rather like the Scots, absorbent sponges also, but more cheerful and intelligent, and without that bagpipe racket.



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STILL HAVE THUMB

It is probably a dead certainty that the majority of patients in the Emergency Room today are men, and that the reason that they are there is because of accidents with combustibles and explosives. Much of which will have involved their dominant hand. Even as we speak, there are detonations ongoing. Which will probably continue for several hours. I shall not delve into the damage, suffice to say that I have seen enough MRI images of hands which have had their best days that I can very well picture what is presently going on in their heads.

[It probably ain't pretty, and anyway it's probably not much.]


Boys, if you're going to do stupid things with gunpowder, consider at least doing so with your feet. That way you'll probably still be able to fill out the admission form and write love letters to your nearest and dearest. Who may have advised you to do something else and are now thinking "jayzis, I married/gave birth to an idiot".

Perhaps, as a back-up, you should cross-train one or two of your other limbs. Just in case.
It will make knife and fork use so much easier. As well as chopsticks for when you eat dimsum or noodle soup. And we'll admire your talent and determination.
Persevere, little butterfly, persevere! Freedom!

Show gumption!

Not having to work today, I went down to Chinatown in the middle of the day for lunch. Best darn hotdog I've had in years. Real bread bun, toasted. Lettuce, sliced tomato, avocado, and cheddar. Some condimental stuff, and thick hot sauce. Quite excellent. Yes, in Chinatown. Hardworking people, limited English. I hope they prosper mightily.

Chinatown was jampacked. I'm sure they all appreciate the extra business, but that did mean there was nowhere to grab a cup of Hong Kong Milk Tea. Even the fresh dumpling place at which I was actually planning to eat was full-up. They don't have milk tea either, but Shanghainese are not, strictly speaking, a milk tea subculture.

On the other hand, the Financial District was delightfully empty. And walking down there smoking my pipe was a slice of heaven. No angry non-smokers to dodge.


So it's been a lovely day. Gwan, blow your giddy selves up.
Enjoy Trump's speechiewheechie, if that's your thing.
You know it's going to be all about him, right?

Happy two hundred and fiftieth.



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MENTAL LAWNS

Dawn on Nob Hill is often not so much a burst of brightness from eastwards so much as a gradual shifting through successive shades of greeny grey blue, while in some trees birds twitter. A bus rolls past, interior lit, mostly empty. Before six o'clock there are few people about. In the utility passage of one building a bagman hunkers. Still asleep.
There is fresh air.

At this hour one can smoke on the street without anyone remarking that one is ruining their lungs and what about the children? Oh heartless beast! Yes, what about the children?
None of the precious little trolls are about.

Children and Karens are exceedingly rare before eight.
And more cautious when there are fewer witnesses.


The care and thoughtfulness required to pack and light a pipe mean that one has already had coffee, after enough sleep, to be a responsible human being, albeit not social. Quietness, and a sense of personal space. A thoughtful attitude, a chipper mood. Reflecting over last night's final pages before going to sleep much more than the workday ahead. Caesar's legions, as opposed to Marin's suburban dullards. Glittering breastplates and polished shields versus cargo pants and capris in solid pastels, and t-shirts advertising headbanger metal bands they last went to see in the nineties.

The world is just better at this hour. I haven't doomscrolled yet, nor been forced to nod and smile at people. The caffeine has started its journey through my cerebrum, aided by highly refined sugar and traces of nicotine, the only actual solids for the time being are Atorvastatin, Aspirin, Metoprolol, Losartan HCTZ, and Xarelto (Rivaroxaban). Plus B-complex, D3, and Magnesium. Yummy.

The pipe is a Hardcastle Royal Bruyere bent bulldog, the tobacco was the last of the Capstan from the open tin. Which last is becoming harder to buy locally, because there are far fewer tobacconists, far fewer pipesmokers. Stock might not be filled and reordered promptly, as cigars pay the rent and thus have precedence.

Besides, pipesmokers like myself complain about the prices.
As well as modernity, politics, and kids these days.
We wish everyone would get off our lawns.
Most of which are imaginary.


I haven't had a lawn since sometime in the last century.



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REVOLTING BENEFITS

The sun is streaming in through the east-window in the room where the television and the computers reside, and it looks like it might be a warmer day than usual for this time of year. Possibly as high as the very low sixties. which is quite tropical for the city. In some parts of the country, like Alabama, or, for instance, New York, it will be around one hundred degrees Fahrenheit, which I believe is considered "balmy" and I have no intention of finding out. In New York they at least have air-conditioning and emergency rooms that can deal with heat prostration, but still.

Looking forward to fog later. The evenings around July Fourth are always grey, and per hallowed tradition people gather on hill tops in SF to shiver in their warm blankets while admiring pale barely visible pastel puffballs in the clouds. No, we don't barbecue then.
Have you ever actually enjoyed a burnt burger while your system is shutting down?

The proper time to barbecue is about half an hour before noon. Sunlight, no wind yet, and live people. A late afternoon cooking session outdoors leads to frozen corpses standing around teeth chattering trying to make small talk over cocktails just a bit too strong.

Our ancestors did not grill weenies at Valley Forge.
That would be the Texans you're thinking of.
They're nuts. You know that.

The greatness of this country is that after the revolution my ancestors, solid hard-nosed New Amsterdam Dutch Calvinists, were forced to treat all those damned heathenish Scotch Irish, Anglo Saxons, and Germans, as if they were actually equals. Revolted, they did. If I were a religious man I would still choose to believe that Baptists, Born-Agains, layers-on-of-hands, snake-handlers, Methodists, Mormons, and a host of others, most particularely evangelicals, were all heading straight to hell, instead of as just considerably less intelligent fellow citizens. And because they were in New York, not Europe, the peace of Munster (1648) could not possibly apply to them.

The license to destroy Papists, Iberian outposts, et autres, would still stand.

Instead, we treat them all as being rather human.
We could change, you know.



It should not surprise you to know that I have a long list of heretics and idolaters holding public office who in a righteous universe would be burned at the stake.
It spans the entire rightwing gamut.



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