STRICTLY NORMAL, NOTHING TO SEE

An airport in a deity-forsaken part of the country is now warning passengers that they should be present four hours early for flights, so that the goons can security-screen them, challenge them to wrestling matches, and then rip their luggage apart into fragments of ever decreasing size. Just to make sure they aren't hiding any "evidence" in the lining. "Travel should be fun", they say, "and we have a doozy of a ride in store for you".

So the question is, how do you get your praescribed medications on board? ICE agents are notorious for denying people their life-saving medicines by now, and most of those red-state slope brows wouldn't recognize legitimate pills if they jumped up and bit them. They're more likely to think in terms of ivermectin, bleach, and praying the daemons out.

Plus sacred amulets. Juju. Dried heads.


Given that we've become a tish hole, why would anyone even travel in this country? The natives are vile, the food is garbage, there is scant hygiene, mildew and bedbugs everywhere, and ignorant Texan imbeciles for three thousand miles.

Except for San Francisco and New York.
New York has pizza.

This morning while out for a smoke with a Charatan Canadian and some Greg Pease, I saw that bus-stop uncle and auntie were at their usual spots waiting for the trip over the hill to Chinatown. Breakfast, social club, clinics, and physical jerks for the elderly. A full day, then back home to this neighborhood shortly after tea time. I strongly suspect bus-stop uncle of being a cigarette smoker, but I think he keeps it in check till auntie is out of sight.

They know each other. And probably live in the same building. But I don't think it's anything more than that. Neighbors, friends, same doctors. Different mah jong parlours.

They are probably not as disrupted as I am by the closing of my favourite provisioners for a two week vacation. The time when the cheap eatery near the high rise was shuttered for the day may have impacted them, but much less than it flummoxed me. I was happy to get back to Chinatown after the cardiologists appointment, and quite taken aback that my plan to have congee (皮蛋瘦肉粥 'pei daan sau yiuk juk') and an oil stick (油條 'yau tiu') at a place I hadn't visited in months -- no routine is set in stone, not even regular ones -- had come to naught. That Monday the applecart of routine was upset.
I relish my irregular regularities.


A friend likes to have a bowl of chile verde at a gas station near his house at least once or twice a month. Made with hot green New Mexico chilies, no tomatillo, and pork shoulder. Three staff members there know the recipe, so he'll not be left hanging. They're open 365 days a year. Last thanksgiving he had it with a plate of fried chicken on the side. He thinks he might do that this Easter also. It's a bit hard to hide Easter eggs where he lives. Scant grass. Cacti. Hardly any little people to search for them. Tiny thugs.


The last bunny they saw was a jackrabbit.
It went into the stew pot.



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LET THE INCOHERENT SCREAMING CONTINUE

When I got back to my neighborhood a gentleman down the block was having a tantrum. And I'm glad he moved past my apartment building by the time I got to the front steps; he had rolled further down the slope. I suspect that he was a crazed Trumpite, as I've grown to expect incoherence and gibberant screaming from those people. I can imagine everywhere between the Bay Area and the Five Boroughs alive with the sounds of inchoate anger.

Basically, they're all Karoline Leavitt. With some desert islands of sanity here and there.

Old joke about two guys on a desert island giving their rescuers a tour. "This is my Moose Lodge. That is his Moose Lodge." But what about that one over there? "That is the Moose Lodge neither one of us would be caught dead in!"


Speaking of Karoline Leavitt, has anyone seen her feet? Is she also forced to wear the Presidentially mandated Florsheims? Do they accommodate talons?

And further speaking of her, she and the rest of those trolls have been voted the political mob most likely to catch kuru en masse. I believe there is a golden award for that.

Plus the exact same strain of cold sores.

The great thing about all of them wearing shoes that are far too large is that it prevents them from dying of toenail fungus. Ventilation and coolness prevent it spreading to their brains. Proper hygiene would do the same, but it's much too late for that.


If you sprinkle them with water, will they dissolve?



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LAUDING CHEESE

One thing discussed was dreams one wishes to get out of. In his case, I suspect that late night coffee, cheese, and just the fact that he's getting older play a part. Cheese late at night awakens the Gromit. France, as you know, is full of Gromit. Well, so are England, Holland, and Italy. And, related thereto, a Dutch cheese won 'World's Best Cheese 2026' this year, as many Dutch sites on social media have made sure I know. French and Italian sites are strangely silent on the subject, and the English have their own problems.

My apartment mate, very slowly getting over some bug, has had smell issues for a while. Recently she was in the cheese section of Whole Foods and gagged. Normal Chinese Americans probably do that all the time, but she likes cheese and it distresses her.

She wants her regular nose to return.

It's a good thing she doesn't spend much time in my quarters.
I am, as you know, a Caucasian person.
And last week was hot.


Let us above all not mention stinky tofu and durian.

And, speaking of award winning cheeses, I wonder if the local cheese shop carries Beemster, that being the Duch cheese that knocked everyone else out of the water.
I think I'll check it out to see what all the fuss is about.

It’s the single most popular cheese in the world!

They might try to tell me to eat Ilchester instead.



I wonder how either of those taste melted on top of a hamburger.



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EAT IT, IT'S CIRCULAR

One of the most ridiculous culinary categories is vegan molecular gastronomy, which seems to be popular in Northern Spain. Probably so that Barcelona isn't the only part of the country that benefits from stupid Americans. Here in SF we don't need that. We have both ramen and cioppino. And very much other stuff that's edible, a lot of which can be eaten with one hand while you're scrolling for messages on your phone.

A coworker keeps encouraging me to bring my phone when I'm out of the house, because there might be an emergency. Which I don't, because I'm never stuck with a flat in Placer County and no wild animals or landslides threaten me.


"Hello, nine one one, there is nothing to eat here on Jackson Street below Grant that appeals to me. The situation is desperate. Please send help!"

"Where can I get a Chicago-style hot dog?"


Yeah, um. I have not fallen and cannot get up, and I don't foresee that happening anytime soon. And there is no reason to take the phone with me to the shower anyway.

Late lunch in Chinatown. Chilipaste with eggs and shrimp over rice. Regular tea and Hong Kong milk tea. At a place where they had run out of scallion buns (蔥油包 'chong yau baau'). Which had to be repeated very many times, because apparently that precisely hits the spot right around teatime for many people. Who left desolate. Desolate!

All over San Francisco Chinatown little kiddies are going to bed without their scallion buns. The situation is desperate. Please send help.

Remarkably few of the pedestrians who passed while I was smoking my pipe while waiting for the bookseller were druggies, dubious types, or nutballs. Which is odd -- did we finally cure them? Chase them back to the East Coast?

Later, segueing from a mention of golf, the bookseller said that he was amazed at the process of serving tennis balls. My contribution to that was that the best way to serve them was with a swirl of port wine reduction, sprinkle of fresh chervil, and a little umbrella.
On a square plate to contrast with the roundness.

I try not to watch golf or tennis on teevee. I may be out of the contemporary cultural loop on that. Many tired old fossils spend hours placidly chewing their cud and scratching their balls doing so. Or they mention going to Shelbyville (which was called Morganville at one time), with an onion tied to their belt, which was the style at the time.



The tobacco smoked both in the Peterson sandblast after eating and the Dunhill Bruyere during the wait was G. L. Pease's Embarcadero, which is red Virginia with a little Smyrna, pressed and sliced. Tangy and nuanced. It should totally be in everyone's contemporary cultural loop. Much more so than anything golf or tennis related.
All the finest young fossils agree.



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TOO HOT AND WET

During the night I realized that I'm old. Years ago I looked at people rather differently, often as features on the social landscape, and unless I could speak to them not very interesting, not particularly human. The ones who stood out were people with whom I could talk. Most others were just there. Visual, ambulatory, sound producing. Dimensionalities.
Kind of like planking or ceramic tiles in the middle distance.

They stood out by wit, and being perspicacious.
Nowadays it's by being kind individuals.
Unbumpy in their interactions.


This came to the fore at a chachanteng a few weeks ago, when I observed the waitress there coping with the crowd while they were severely understaffed. Frantic, efficient, spinning at ninety miles an hour and getting everything done never-the-less. I don't thing the customers even noticed, but having been there when there were three people working the front instead of just one, and having for many years worked part-time at a busy restaurant myself, I could see what was happening. Her timing was sharp, precise, well done.
Naturally I tipped well. I hope the other did too.

Altogether I may have spoken less than a hundred words to her over that and previous visits. What I wanted, did they have hot sauce, and a request for the check.
Plus hi, one person, please thank you, goodbye.

It's much like the women behind the counter at my usual grocery store in Chinatown. Hello, this, two, that big jar, thank you, and see you next time. One of them always looked a little worried, but that may be merely how her face twists. Her boss always looks quite pleasant, engaged but not relaxed. Same. I don't think I've mentioned pipes, philosophy, sixteenth century literature, or even the weather at either place, or at any of the other places.
Well, the weather, perhaps. When it's too hot or wet.

The other day I screwed up the courage to speak to an elderly lady on the bus, who is frequently down at the stop at a certain time early in the morning when I'm rushing to catch transport to Marin. I've seen her and an old gentleman there countless times, they live in the neighborhood. My Cantonese is not perfect, and I often feel hesitant to use it when it's not called for. It went off without a hitch. So I'll probably move to saying good morning to both people on work days. While still mentally counting features of the lanscape at that hour.

Familiar faces, robot taxis, dogs, tykes,street people, emergency vehicles.
Plus yoga women, and people wearing scrubs.


I have good thoughts about the latter category, largely because all of my interactions with such people have been rewarding. Positive, in any case.



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THE DABBLING

We are recovering from the heatwave. Last week it hit eighty five Fahrenheit plus five days in a row. For mid March, that's tropical and sweltering. Today it got up to about sixty five. Much more bearable. I went over the hill to Chinatown for a late lunch and luxury smokes. Sweet panjuices spit roast, red pagoda mountain, jade rivulet, and spring time (蜜汁叉燒、紅塔山、玉溪、春天 'mat jap chaa siu', 'hung taap saan', 'yuk kai', 'cheun tin'). The first being very tasty over rice with a hot cup of milk tea, the other three being Chinese cigarettes.

People are more relaxed and well-tempered than a week ago. It's quite probably the more agreeable temperature, but I like to think that my mellow equinamity and radiant goodness may have contributed a small part. I bought the ciggiess while smoking my pipe after lunch.
It was very good.

Chinese cigarette pack art is often beautiful.
One wishes they made decent pipe tobacco.


Imagine a tin of 'Pearl River Islet' flake tobacco. Red flue-cured leaf, a sprinkle of blonde, and a minor percentage of something very much like Perique (that being a dark oily anaerobicly fermented tobacco usually from Louisiana used condimentally. Or 'Three Beauties Mixture', which might actually be a fine Balkan-style English. Or something.

Scandinavian, eat your heart out.

Tobacco products are manufactured by Chinese state enterprises, and there are probably well over a thousand brands of cigarettes. Pipe smoking in China is barely known, however, and mostly the domain of gnarled elderly peasants OR snooty intellectuals. Or a few businessmen in Shanghai. So it's an unexplored universe, so far.

Unfortunately, judging by the internet, it is a largely barren universe. Chinese pipe smokers of quality tobacco must mostly rely on imports. Germany, Denmark, the UK, the US.

There are a few master Chinese pipe carvers on social media. They make some truly outstanding pipes. Pipe making, in China, has become one of the literati arts.
Much like painting, calligraphy, and seal carving.

Other things associated with the literati world are fine teas, incense, scholar's desk items like brush rests, brush racks and brushpots, art ceramics, understated art objects, yixing teapots, high quality paper, and both black and red ink. Plus flower or budding branch arrangements.



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INDUSTRIAL YOGURT

While I dozed toward fuller alertness, my apartment mate was in the kitchen fixing herself breakfast. She's very much an early morning wide awake type of person, active and aware albeit it sometimes still sharp and grumpy, whereas I tend toward slow pensive arousal aided by caffeine, nicotine, and highly refined sugar. She eats healthier than I do. Meaning crap like oatmeal and yogurt for breakfast, occasionally brightened up by something fried or buttery.
I very rarely eat anything that early, preferring instead to let the hot strong coffee do it's tricks, while I contemplate my navel, my pipe, and man's inhumanity to man, all three of which more or less overlap in my mind while I stalk around a block or two with my pipe.
We wake up differently.

Today it was yogurt. With chunks of banana.

That seems much too carefully thought out and planned for me. Surely caffeine, nicotine, and refined sugar are enough? They're so easy too! Hot liquid, a sniff at an open tin then fill up a pipe, and head out to watch people pooing their dogs on Nob Hill for a bit. Indulge in a bit of grumpiness and existential despair on the public street, come back cheerful and ready to face the day. What is this banana crap?

Some people start the day with garbage duty three months of the year, then a busride, dark roast coffee, and a flaky pastry from Arsicault's while indulging in hipster angst. Before dealing with ancient tomes and crappy art books. That's fine too. All kinds.

It's not that I am devoid of the finer sensibilities, but those usually don't kick in till I've been up for an hour or two. Which is why on work days I head out early and get to the saltmine over an hour before anyone else. Turn on the lights, dust the furniture, put some things in their proper place, and absolutely no rushing about in a panic.
Peace, quiet, start another pipeful.

Punctuated by sporadic doomscrolling. Let's see what the orange baby is tearing down today. Apparently we're now sending untrained goons into the airports, destroying world trade, and going bankrupt. Yep, things are going great.


One interesting pattern which has become increasingly evident over the past few years is that alert educated liberals see the disasters unfolding in something fairly close to real time, whereas oblivious rightwingers don't notice the full horror, and only gradually become aware of some of the details and implications later, spaced out over a period of months or years. And then only filtered through the sunglasses of their favourite propaganda channels.


Did I ever mention guillotines?



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THEIR MARCH MADNESS

The nasty rightwingers in the backroom have gotten silent about our great Spring victory over Iran. In the first few days they were loudly gloating, giddy and exuberant about the brilliant and totally correct manoeuvre by our immortal stable genius leader the chosen one.
But the thrill seems have worn off. Or perhaps reality is raising its ugly head.

They are quieter than they were, their testicles have shrunk, and the cold hard hand of complete non-victory is squeezing their pinheads in its icy grip.

Nor have they been parroting Trump's petulant ranting about how our European allies aren't rushing to our aid in this war that we have won.


We don't need them anyway. The Straight of Hormuz is wide open. Just ignore the shooting.


Pretty soon, encouraged by bombs falling from the sky and explosions, the Iranians will rise up en masse, set their women free, and welcome us as liberators. There will be pom poms.
They'll finally become good fundy Christians, and watch American football.

There will be Turning Point USA chapters all over the country.
And everyone will speak English instead of Foreignese.
It will be grand. Freedom! No more liberals!

Meanwhile, Trump's loyal lapdogs in important positions keep blitheringly voicing words of ego-stroke and gentle encouragement to the king. Because it is expedient.
They do not wish to face the tantrums.


"We took Iwo Jima. We can take Kharg Island."
------U.S. Senator Lindsey Graham (R-SC)


Lindsey Graham's only horse in this race is keeping Donny from ripping his face off. Just keep on smiling and nodding, Lindsey, and please fade deservedly into the background. You're an idiot, and everybody outside of South Carolina knows that.



The long periods of silence in the backroom have been lovely.
Best workweek in a while.



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NOT THE TYPE

There are some people whose attendance I relish, and I like seeing them. One of them is a medical specialist in a field not relevant to my health with whom I enjoy talking, who has diagnosed the repulsive old crotchets in the back room as irredeemable fascist, damned well crypto-nazis, and does not talk with them if he can help it. It's a completely reality-based assessment. If I didn't have to deal with them I would do likewise. He's a broad-minded man with a sense of humour and extensive non-medical data sets in his head.

Another one is a Central Asian Muslim who has extreme tolerance for blistering idiots. Which I admire. No, I could not emulate that if I tried. He patiently puts up with them.

Some others drop by and spend as litte time as possible before escaping.


Largely it is not an environment for rationality or sane and balanced conversation, though, unless you can waffle on incessantly about sports, which is something that despite being back in the United States for decades I cannot manage. Only one of the old blisters back there exercises his brain, and regularly reads books -- the others probably haven't done that since junior college and their driving tests -- but given his political affiliations that may be a somewhat pointless exercise. No hurdles that are jumped, no mental sweat broken.

Quite naturally I enjoy my work environment mostly when it is quiet and there are few people about. And the television, so necessary as cushioning for dingbats, is not on, no talking heads or ball sports related garbage in the background.

The medical specialist will be off in one corner of the building zoomconferencing, occasional snippits of which will be audible (and fascinating, as I would like to ask questions, but usually I just file them in my head to look up later at home), and once in a while a serious pipe smoker drops by. With a bit of luck I can make it smoothly to quitting time.
Without being revolted by fragments of MAGAite idiocy.

I am, altogether, pleased that I do not have to encounter most of those folks outside of work. And glad that there is no reason whatsoever to go to Marin other than the hours I am required to be there, for which I am paid.


I am an intolerant man.



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THE IMPORTANCE OF PANTS

The chap on the other end of the line said "I'm putting on my pants and coming over!" Which was welcome news. I myself often wear pants, and am somewhat averse to dealing with pantsless people. I live in San Francisco, so pantsless or entirely unclothed are within the realm of possibilities. A few years ago walking home from the bus stop in early evening I was attacked by a naked man, who forcefully knocked me over and sped on to the next victim.
I would understandably rather not be attacked, but if the assailant is nude that's just toxic icing on the cake there. Any nudity in my presence, if I'm okay with it, will naturally have preconditions which must be met.

I mean, in principle I am not opposed to nakedness. In practice, however, there are very few people I wish to see naked, and probably even fewer who would desire to see me unclothed. To the best of my knowledge there are none. Unless they're just not telling me. Which is extremely doubtful. I have thought about this.

Ideally both of those groups would have an overlap where there is at least one person. But it's hard to draw a Venn diagram with nothing in it. People I wish to see naked: zero. People who wish to see me naked: zero. People I wish to see naked who also wish to see me naked: zero.

People on the streets of San Francisco who are naked: not quite zero.

Thank you for putting your pants on before coming over.
I appreciate that very immensely.

Without asking I assumed that the pantsless person was calling from his home. Where he was probably dealing with the immense heat we've had for the past several days, by himself. People who live alone can waltz around their quarters bucknaked in a heatwave, the rest of us have to make sure that certain regions are covered. A woman, for instance, would probably do well to have a shirt of some kind on, in addition to something lower. Again, the lighter in weight, the better. Thin opaque cloth. If you're expecting a delivery from Amazon, be prepared. Wear something . At the very least a bedsheet. Amazon delivery people have probably seen lots of bedsheet, as well as lots of glaring nudity.
I'm guessing that they prefer bedsheet.


As just a word of advice: If all you have on are sunglasses, there is a very good chance people will recognize you, even if they have never seen you in the buff before.

Pants. Pants are good.



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IT'S GREEN AND THERE ARE THINGS

Sometimes the internet is a horrid place. Recently it seemed to suggest that I would do well if I purchased a bulk bucket of mealworms and cooked it up, presumably not all at once, in an Analon X Hybrid 12" Non-Stick Skillet, or a Farberware Style 6 Quart Nonstick Stockpot with Tempered Glass Lid, which is both Dishwasher Safe and Oven Safe.

Possibly a Griswold No 6 Large Block Flat Bottom Skillet.

Some benighted influencer has probably done that.

Dude! I don't eat breakfast. Okay?

Yes, I know it's a prime ingredient in a high-protein shake which will help me lose weight. Sounds yummy and downright Southern. When cooked, indistinguishable from grits.
And goes great glopped over sliced avocado on toast.

All-natural. Non GMO.

No.

I did indeed purchase a new one quart Stainless Steel Farberware saucepan recently, which arrived in two days. So I can understand the algorithm in a fit of utter batshittery deciding that I was in the market for a full batterie de cuisine. The algorithm is berserkly obsessed, poor dear. But mealworms? Big bucket o'mealworms? I don't even have a lizard.

There are no skittery little clawed feet here.

They wouldn't survive a minute. There are things. In the night.


In addition to the weird sounds coming from both bedchambers. Small, animalian, conspiratorial. Creatures that wish to exploit or wallop other creatures.
All of them unique individuals. Little anarchists.


The less said about the horrid green nunnery soup, the better.
We shall not replace it with mealworm étouffée.
Un jambalaya de ténébrion meunier.


Ténébrion Meunier Meunière.




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NOBODY MENTION REPTILES

It seems like only yesterday iguanas were falling out of trees because of the cold. We miss those days! The trick to surviving when the temperature recalls Karachi and Tehran is to either get a job in a well-airconditioned office, OR to ponce around the house in one's underwear cussing sotto voce. Guess which one I'm doing. With a pipe in my mouth.
And I'm thinking of ice tea, despite not being Southern in the slightest.
Oh what perilous times are these!
Ice tea, forsooth.

Actually, it is too darn hot to ponce. There is no poncing.

I'll probably have to get dressed before she get's home.


Headed out for lunch at a reasonable time. Rice, stewed fatty pork, tofu. Loaded up a pipe and found a shady spot. After about ten minutes decided that my circulation wasn't up to it, back hurt like billie-O, caught a bus back across the hill. Upper back still feels like heck.

It's actually not insufferably hot, back in my hoary youth it would have felt quite decent, but the veins and arteries now object strongly to these conditions.

I shan't visit Karachi or Tehran anytime soon.
Not till the next ice age, I think.

The Deep South is also out of the question. Most of the time it's too warm there also, and dickheads are common year round. Plus the food gives you diabetes.

Besides, we have teabags, sugar, and ice cubes here.
We're pretty much self-sufficient.
Dickheads too.

A neighbor mentioned that she lives on the top floor of her building, apartment facing south. So for the past few days she's been hosed. The weather should be semi-normal again next week. I expect all the tourists will go away, they seem to sprout when it's warm.

Eighty degrees. 太熱嘅啦！

I'm sorry, we have no iguanas here, none at all.
That's the Midwest you're thinking of.
They're tasty, I know.



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TEETH WILL BE PROVIDED!

There are various words going through my head, randomly but repetitively. Among the obvious ones are 'interrogatory', 'transubstantion', 'antidisestablishmentarian', 'spoon', and 'heat dome'. More bafflingly, 'skeebeedee' and 'wendigo'. Plus 'shu' ('so'). Wendigo is more properly spelled 'windigo', and refers to a formerly human cannabilistic giant such as is common in the wilder areas of the red states.

Odd crap like this is fairly standard when caffeine hits.
I'm sure you've experienced something similar.


My apartment mate has left for the day, I have closed her bedroom door and lit up a delicious smuggled-in ciggie, and am enjoying the morning quiet. There's a small stuffed sheep sitting on my pile of clothing seriously demanding that I treat his sister right, and other than that it is calm and delightfully peaceful here.

For some reason I'm also thinking of a coworker headed to Asia soon, Manila and Bangkok. Where it is not too much warmer than here. Ten degrees. No, he's not going there for the brutal exploitation of younger members of the opposite gender as so many Americans do. He's too old for that, as well as being too gentlemanly despite being an asshole.
Dental surgery. Cheaper there than here after deductibles and co-pays.

I'm sure that at some point (several points) he'll say something stupid there that will offend the natives and might get him in trouble. Probably after drinks.

Shu ('so' in Cantonese) is a general term for vegetables, commonly called 蔬菜 ('so choi'), which is a somewhat formal usage often encountered on plastic bags advertising a grocery store, along with terms like 新鮮豬肉、雞、鴨、魚、急凍食品、雜貨 ('san sin jyu yiuk', 'gai', 'ngaap', 'yü', 'gap tung sik pan', 'jaap fo'); fresh pork, chicken, duck, fish, frozen food, mixed goods. Everything your heart (and stomach) desires might be in that bag of groceries.


It is more likely that stupid crap will come out of his mouth in Manila, where many people speak English and act American, which might fool him into thinking that it's safe. He's never learned to shut up. Let's hope he simply spouts antivax and space alien drivel rather than politics or religion. Those can be dangerous there.



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MMM, NAPALM

Heading into the third week of Donald Trump's florid wattle display in the Middle East, and powerful Republicans continue to betray the country. When this idiocy is all over, we'll need guillotines to deal with them. The Europeans have rightly told us to go fly a kite. And for those people complaining that it's so unfair, we helped the Euries in Worl War Two, they should stand by our side, two things: 1) It took us two and half years of kissing up to the Nazis before we got involved, and 2) The Euries have stood by us, several times. Remember Afghanistan and Iraq? The second mentioned was our stupidest war till this one.

[If we hadn't been attacked on December 7, 1941, we would have gladly stayed on the sidelines selling guns and ammo to both sides until one of them was bankrupt. As it is, we made sure both were by the time it ended.]

Do not confuse the interests of the United States with the interests of the Republican Party. United States and European interests largely coincide, whereas Republican interests are largely greed-driven, and often fuelled by religion.


Plus one shouldn't overlook the fact that large parts of the country are crazy, violent, and genetically narrow. Like Oklahoma and large parts of The South.

Bless their hearts.

By the way, have I recently mentioned that y'all eat too much, smell bad, and dress funny?
Should have, it's a crucial set of data. Y'all nasty!
It's your parents' fault.


These are all things which I don't quite know how to deal with. After all, I suppose I have tolerate y'all, despite my best instincts telling me to get out the DDT and spray like hell.

Fortunately the early morning joggers, bums, and dogwalkers do not act social. My walk around the neighborhood was undisturbed and peaceful, and at this hour the heat has not risen. Eighty plus degrees is NOT "balmy" despite what the media avers. It's absolutely frightful. And this week has been a real horror show in that regard.

There is nothing like that first pipe of the day.
It smells like ..... victory.



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IT'S FILLED WITH WOMEN PEOPLE

Lunch was at a place where the waitstaff are all female. And, during the busy period, going somewhat crazy. One of them has an extremely loud voice when she's yelling across the blasted heath that table so and so needs a check or be clearable. It is very very loud.
Those of us on the spectrum tend to start or cringe when huge loudness happens.

Other than that, lunch was splendid. The bank seems also to be staffed entirely by women, two of which are loud Mandarin speakers. The lottery place ... women. More soft-spoken. Both grocery stores. Women. The bakery. Women.

I spent an hour and a half at the bakery, because having done all my errands and grocery shopping, I didn't feel like stepping out into the blastfurnace. The day was insufferably hot, though not as bad as yesterday, which according to the 星島日報 ('sing tou yat pou') had been eighty six degrees Fahrenheit in the city. Today was just below eighty.

None of the old men showed up. The gentleman who comes there with his little daughter did. After greeting me she sat at their table entranced by something inane and child-oriented on her device, in English. She's maybe four or five. Very active, tonnes of energy. He speaks Cantonese, so does she. But she's probably rushing into bilingualism.

Language acquisition is a stumblety bumblety business.
And sometimes blindfolded.

Dried tangerine peel (陳皮 'chan pei'), for instance, is a cultural marker which has almost none of the resonance in English that it does in Chinese. The best, of course, are from Xin Hui (新會區 'san wui keui'). More fragrant, more depth and softness of flavour, better for the membranes, quite expensive. You didn't know you needed it before, but now you do.

After I left I lit my pipe and headed over to a place where there is outdoor furniture, and watched a teenage woman person destroy her aunt and uncle at the pingpong table.
All three of them had way too much energy for this weather.

When my partment mate come home this evening, she announced that her brother is an imbecile. This is a possibility I will gladly entertain. He is not a woman person.
Simply a know-it-all pain in the tookus.



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SMELLS LIKE GRANDPA

Normally Wednesdays are rather enjoyable. Lunch at a favourite C'town haunt, smoke a pipe afterwards, shop for groceries including some fresh fruit or vegetables for the elderly Chinese Indonesian woman downstairs (basically checking that all is well with her without prying, and make sure she gets her vitamins), tea and a small snack at a bakery, while conversing with some deaf old coots, then a stroll down to the bus stop while smoking another pipeful.
Except that today it will be too warm for comfort.

Teatime will be the hottest period.

No matter what, I'll be overdressed. Normal white people will be waltzing around with their midriffs or chests bare, wearing Aussie style shorts or diaphanous garments better suited to sleazy nightclubs or the harem of a degenerate financier, this blogger will be dressed decently and thinking of cooling showers or sumpin'.

And I might be grumpy.


One of the deaf old coots will be wearing far too much. He will end up being immensely uncomfortable, all bundled up in gear more appropriate in the arctic or the outer Richmond District, and I expect he'll have something to say about all the other people on public transit today, what with being around ninety years old, stubborn, and opinionated. And wearing four or five layers of clothing, which won't improve his mood. I may get out of the house early and get everything done well before teatime, because conversation at the bakery might be on a distant planet. Deafness, strong opinions, and a whole bunch of grumps. Um.

Get home early, take a shower, then stumble around languorously in my underwear. Perhaps a glass of weak cold tea with some citrus, to stay hydrated. Try to avoid sweating. Doomscroll.


The pipe pictured above is an old Stanwell I restored years ago, which I think may have been made in the eighties or nineties. It's a pretty good smoker, rather elegant.
Looks wrigglesome.

No, I have never smoked Hobbit's Weed in it. One quarter Danish vanilla, one quarter cherry, half black vanilla cavendish. Beloved by men with tattoos and piercings living in their mom's basement who play role-playing games with themselves.

Spare and reserved old fashioned Virginia mixtures with a touch of Perique.
Nothing soaked in perfume or smelling like a bath house.
We are civilized. Not effete.
Damned hippies.



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WAKING GIANTS

For decades we relied on NATO to passively acquiesce. Now we've broken it. NATO stands united in their refusal to be our enabler and co-abuser, showing far more backbone than ever before. Which means that by our actions and stupidity we have lost our back. Membership in international bodies confers a degree of legitimacy in world affairs, we no longer have that. The Republicans have succeeded in isolating the United States.

We cannot blame this on one man. It's the entire upper echelon of the Republican Party and their henchmen in religion and commerce. Plus cheering red-hatted goobers.


NATO isn't behind us. Japan and Korea aren't behind us.
We've got El Salvador, Fiji, and Hungary.
Great going, guys.


Plus Erika Kirk and Lindsey Graham.
And Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana.

Meanwhile, our dearly beloved leader, adulated by millions, gives long talks about glorious ballrooms, how the evil windmills are out to get him, and how we are more respected than ever before, because of what we did in Venezuela and will do in Greenland, which we discovered, and where we'll build beautiful golf clubs.

All paid for by massive tarrifs.

Gaza too. Golf clubs.

Huge.



Dot dot dot.



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FRIGHTFUL CELEBRATIONS

Dear sir, I wish to register a complaint! Today on the seventeenth day of March of 2026 the temperature in downtown San Francisco after three o'clock was eighty five degrees. This is unheard of, and an outrage! I blame the Irish, the Trumpites, and the Lutherans! As well as everybody in the Eastern half of the country keeping all the delicious coolth for themselves, those poxy rotten selfish bastards!

In the past, temperatures on the feast day of Saint Gertrude of Nivelles (patron saint of cats) would be somewhere between fifty and sixty or so degrees Fahrenheit. Today it wasn't.
It was quite buggery awful.


I am currently sitting in the teeveeroom in my underwear (boxers and a wife beater) with no intention of going out to deal with drunken Irish Americans celebrating Saint Gertrude's Day.

And thanks to President Trump ranting pointlessly about windmills in answer to a question about something else entirely, I'm proposing that Saint Gertrude's Day should ALSO henceforth be Windmill Day.


During lunch while sweltering I got to hear several phone calls that Victor over at the next table in the chachanteng had to deal with. "hey, Kaufoo, what the heck did you tell Connie?" Judging by what followed, Kaufoo (舅父 'kau fu'; mother's brother, uncle) may have told her something about someone being real cheap and going through all the tinned pineapple. In any case, Connie should chill the F out, and the nephew should simply buy some more tinned pineapple. Now stop bugging me.

Then there was the call about an ex employee drinking on the job. Shipcanned while tipsy. Didn't even lock the door at night, or take care of business. Some other employee now no longer drinks at work, he's just an alocoholic when off duty at home.
I'm surprised to realize that Victor seems to think in English. Given that I've usually heard him holding forth in Cantonese, Mandarin, and something Min Nan which might be Teochew.

On Saint Gertrude of Nivelles Day many people in San Francisco get lacquered out of their gourds and dress in ichor green. It's a very strange custom, and civilized people stay home on that day and lock the doors. Going anywhere near bars would be madness. So the bookseller and I will not meet today, we'll have tea and cocktails next week.

But I did mark the day, in a manner. Smoked a pipeful after late lunch in a Peterson pipe. Nothing is more Irish AND more pipish than a Peterson 312 System Standard.
Shape 69 is also an option.

So I was more observant than all the yutzes wearing shades of green. You know the VC snipers can still see you, right? Y'all stand out a mile in the desert like a sore thumb.

How are you going to mark Windmill Day? We Dutch don't get disgustingly drunk.
That's something only English monolinguals do.
Habitually.

It's downright nasty, is what it is.
Bunch of fratboys!



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