THE WORLD OF SWILL

It strikes me that the Great Outdoors could be vastly improved by pleasant inns every two or three miles, so that there is an actual point to trekking throught the wilderness. One could say to one's family "hey, I'm going to commune with nature, hey hey hey" then get on one's bike and speed off to Café De Molen (bar and coffeeshop 'the mill'), sit down at a long table with one or two friends in the middle of the afternoon, and enjoy some croquettes (kroketten), after which a pint of trappist beer (Trappisteiner) would be splendid, and a pipeful of tobacco. Maybe 'Troost Slices (a Dutch style "cooked" flake, concocted by Van Rossem originally, or, if one was not dabbling in horrid native vices, something like Balkan Sobranie, though not containing bright Virginias but red. Like Arango Balkan Supreme.

Especially in the United States. Where nature has Poison Ivy, Poison Oak, Poison Sumac, rattlesnakes, vipers, and feral trailer parkers shooting guns at tin cans, varmints, and their mother-in-law.

Who needs nature, with its sand and rain storms, dangerous animals and plants, and repulsive human inhabitants, anyway?


On the other hand, fried snacks and trappist beer are darn good things.
Since returning to the United States beer has been a disaster.
There was Anchor Steam, which was pretty good.
Now there's only Guinness.

And I don't drink, so you can just imagine.

TRAPPIST BEER

A friend likes to on occassion hike on Mount Tam. Which, given that he is nearly my age, is commendable. But sadly there is no hospitable country auberge at the end of the trail, so it seems kind of pointless. Also, he doesn't smoke a pipe, so if for whatever berserk reason I decided to embrace my goofy side and head off into the bloody moors of Marin County, he might not enjoy it. Plus nature freaks in Northern California are well known for screaming at smokers, because their purebred doggies are traumatized by nicotine and gluten, it's a private trail for them and people they approve of only, and you're wearing polyester!

In any case, Northern California is known for artisanal craft beer, so you can't drink it unless you are intellectually prepared. Which neither he nor I are.


We still haven't recovered from the yuppie colonialization of coffee.
Espresso, Cappucino, or Latte, only! And no whipped cream.
No decaf, syrups, or dairy substitutes.
And NO bloody sprinkles.


The last time I was in a Starbucks, I left.
And I only like sane quiet bars.



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A TRAVEL THING

Dinner was simple, at a place to which I often go, whose staff I will not see for the next four weeks because they are taking a vacation. To many locals vacation means heading over to Hong Kong, then jaunting into the mainland to visit some village to which they are connected. If they were born here it's a short visit. If their parents are American born, two or three days. By the fourth generation it fades, as they do not really know anyone there, at least not well enough to enjoy prolonged exposure. Send some money back for the upkeep of ancestral halls and graves, visit one or two people, relax for a day or two. That's basically it.
Kong people, however, need to recharge their batteries.

I suspect that the owner and his family will spend time both in HK and the mainland. Another business nearby always goes back for Chingming, and I've gotten used to them being closed for two or three weeks, and not having warned their customers beforehand.

My apartment mate always does Chingming for the graves in the United States. She has never been to China. She often finds Chinese people to be irritating or baffling, and often asks me for words or translations into Cantonese or Mandarin.

有排隊 there is a line! 輪到你 you're up next.
每個客人一個 just one per person!
真係好激死！

I myself never do Chingming. I don't have to.
I'm so white I glow in the dark.
Dutch American.

In any case, I hope they have a good time and come back refreshed. Hong Kong at this of year heads into decent temperatures, might be some rain, maybe another typhoon, but probably not. Peak storm season is already over.

The Kempen Area in the Netherlands (North Brabant province) is currently quite a bit colder, and significantly more precipitationary at this time of year. No typhoons. Dim sum can be found, but it might take some (considerable) effort.
The coffee is much better.

There is WiFi in both places, as well as modern medicine.

No senile egomaniacs running everything.
So not quite American standards.

Malaria is not endemic.
Either area.



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THE LEMON EATERS

There are several internet commentators from Europe who delight in criticizing America and darn-well everybody who lives here. We are vulgar and uncultured, obedient sheep obeying the oligarchs, obsessed with stupid macho sports, and greasy fast-food snarfers. With very very few (if any) redeeming features. I rather wonder how they feel now that their younger generation has decided to riot, loot, and burn. Apparently all is not well in Europe.

Americans, as is well known, do not riot, loot, and burn.
We listen to the Beach Boys and go surfing.
Then we eat burgers.


Also, we have exceptionally few Slavic and Arab yobbos in track suits. Unlike Europe. Where they are everywhere. Our Slavs and Arabs are, almost overwhelmingly, university educated, socially responsible and hard working, rather interesting, likable chaps and chapettes who contribute in worthwhile ways to the society around them. Well, except for Slovenian immigrants, that is.


In Europe, Slavs and Arabs in track suits sweep streets, clean toilets, and loiter. In between joining the native urbanite jugend in rioting, looting, and burning. I spent from my second year till when I was eighteen in Europe, so I'm still a little sour, you understand. I wonder how many of those genetically uncomplex people over there have syphilis carried over from parents to offspring, or spread like wildfire in some grammar and high schools.

And by the way, entirely unconnected to any of the foregoing, there are some cities that every year top the illicit substance byproduct numbers in analyses of their waste water. Remarkable. Point of pride too, as they are mostly Dutch or Flemish (my ancestors fled the Southern Netherlands because the Catholics wanted to exterminate them, ending up initially in Haarlem and Amsterdam before coming over here), and I've always taken pride in our ethnic inability to not thumb our noses at the authorities, but also a bit embarassing. As an example, I know Eindhoven very well, and rather like the place. And I support PSV. Top notch team, great group of supporters, spirited lads. But Eindhoven is lock, stock, and barrel stoked to the gills on methamphetamine, whacked out and zipped to the tits. A stellar techinical university, though. So kudos for that! Bravo, jongens!

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time to enjoy the surf, listen to some seventies rock, and devour a nice greasy bacon cheeseburger, while NOT rioting, looting, and burning. Per FOX News, our city centre in San Francisco is a boarded-up dead zone with nothing but fentanyl addicts loosening their bowels on Market Street, and there is absolutely nothing left to loot and burn there anyway.



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THE RESEMBLANCE IS FRIGHTENING

In some parts of the British Isles the gene pool may be only one inch deep. Judging by the clothing advertised to woodcutters and very very Protestant head mistresses. And why is she spending her breakfast time browsing through their sartorial preferences? Good lord, some of that plaid garb is ghastly. Utter garbish! And this is how I know that holiday shopping is leaping out at us, because I know she would never wear that stuff herself.
Nor would I, so she isn't shopping for me.

I mean, I would not dress like that. I do not need to frighten sheep out on the moors, or little trembling school girls. Out on the moors. Maybe I should avoid all of Scotland. Where I have distant relatives of the Presbyterian persuasion, because in the New World Calvinists married other Calvinists. Of which there was too short a supply, that's how all those Episcopalians ended up dominating. And one phrase sticks out: "those nuns are too fat". Which I shall not ask about, because somehow it's tied in to that "men who build piles of mud" vibe.

Any culture which celebrates nettle soup and boiled parsnips has a lot of explaining to do.

I like scratchy woolens as much as the next person, so naturally I heartily recommend tartan underwear to everybody. Especially Celtic persons. It will keep them awake so the banshees don't catch them.

Banshees (Gaelic: "bean sídhe"; fairy mound women foretelling death or disaster) feature prominently in Scottish folklore and remarkably look like several women in our president's inner circle. Yes, that surprises me too.

The person for whose gift she is shopping is an older individual, of possibly conservative personal tastes. Whom I have not met. And know nothing about, other than that she is seventy years old. And, I know for a fact, not blonde or plasticly surgeoned.

I suspect she is not a woodcutter or a headmistress either.
So I'm thinking about an Edward Gorey type.
Living near a glue factory.


Scotland is probably filled with glue factories.
That must be where haggis comes from.



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A VERY MARIN THING

The weather has improved immensely, and the tourist situation on the bus back to the city was much better. So my mood is lighter and I'm walking on air. Also, given that the rancid old fellows who usually infest the backroom gibbering insanely and drooling didn't have a football game to make their panties twist, it was a calm almost peaceful day. And I ended up fussing with a Comoy Specimen made over seventy years ago, a piss-elegant briar.
It's a very jaunty looking number.

One reason the wild animals didn't act up back there was a sense of disquiet because of the midterms, which promise to be a disaster for their party. Even they realize that maybe things they were promised have not and never will be manifested. Another reason is the absence of the coke-snorting fiend who often is the poisonous life of the party. They are learning things about them that give them second thoughts, and he is currently getting treatment.


All of this makes me keenly appreciative of the fact that I do not need to associate with those men outside of work, nor encounter any of them in San Francisco, and that all of my friends are entirely sane. My actual social circle does not included any of the rabid lizards.

The neurosurgeon, not surprisingly, was not on the premises today.
Psychotic pathologies are not his specialty.

Not mine either, which is why I think part of our work equipment should include cattleprods. Which will not be provided. They're all too old for psychological intervention to actually make any difference. Pills. Their nearests and dearests should consider medication.


Remarkably, all of them have nearests and dearests. Today I found out that one of them has adult children, it was the first time he had ever mentioned them. Apparently, three.
I've heard about the offspring two or three of the others have.
This is probably a goldmine for local therapists.
Years and years of assured income.



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THOUGHTS OUTSIDE A BOX

You may have heard that I loathe tourists. In this I am unimaginative, and very European. The Spanish loathe tourists. So do the Italians. The French are notorious, as are the Dutch, English, Germans, and Scandinavians. The bus filled up with tourists in Sausalito yesterday evening, on the way back to the city. Loudly speaking French, German, Italian, and Spanish. In addition to Swedish Chef gabble. And something ghastly sounding from London, Manchester, or Aussielandish.

On the other hand, I rather like mainland Chinese. Knowing full well that this isn't Shanghai or Shenyang, and that little useful information can be gathered from the natives, they've all usually done their research, looked up how to identify and pay for transportation, and very likely even watched videos of useful things like that. "Here's Auntie Sung paying the fare on the bus back from Sausalito. Notice how she has a little blue icon on her screen? She holds it in front of the scanning device till it makes a musical note, and will tap off when she exits, so that the transportation agency driver won't shout incomprehesibly at her at the end of the ride". And, being excellent students, they've learned well, and don't repetitiously ask stupid questions in the hope that the driver will miraculously understand them if they get louder.

So naturally, when my stop was next, I politely excused myself in Cantonese to the Mandarin speaker who had sat down next to me, said 'mi scusi' to the Swedish couple standing in the way, a firm "entschuldigen sie doch" to the French speakers blocking the aisle, and "provolox dibassa" to the Spaniards. No need to use the correct language, as it all sounds like English to them anyway. Dang American!

There are many European towns that never get tourists, because the name of the place is unpronounceable to anyone but the natives and nobody famous ever cut off his ear there. Maybe they're jealous that they will never have to fight daily for the tightly doled out dollars, piasters, rials, and ringgits grudgingly released by tightwad tourists, but no one will ever know. I myself have never been there. But I might at some point. After studying the local argot for several months beforehand, and watching a video of Auntie Sung getting on the bus without unleasing torrents of abuse from the angry savage driving it. As well as researching when the weather will be perfect to not piss me off.

And I will remember to politely say "provolox dibassa" to anyone whom I regretfully might inconvenience. In an indoor tone. As civilized people do, because it's only proper.


Crucially, I will find out whether there is edible pizza and Chinese food there. Because one cannot live on European muck alone, sometime one needs a real meal.



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NEED TO TIGHTEN UP

Given that the noisy and gibberingly insane backroom boys were not in today, probably because they were out there loudly hollering obscenities at a no-kings rally or something equally repulsive -- and I both expect and fervently hope that they got arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct as well as disturbing the peace -- the afternoon was quite enjoyable. Especially because the airconditioning works. So it was cool and bank-like at work.
Despite the blazing Texas-like heat outside.

Please imagine a good-looking mature man enjoying his pipe in a super-cool environment. Mmm, good. Mature Virginias. Merest touch of firecured leaf. Cups of tea. Some chocolate. Intellectual stimulation. Smells like teen-spirit. Baby.

And by mature you don't need to know what exactly I mean.
I am only as old as I feel. Fully caffeinated.
And the tobacco was well-aged.


This evening, in discussing the mobs rioting across the pond and burning France down to the ground, my apartment mate asked "aren't they always destroying something over there?" Well, yes, they are. We Dutch don't do stuff like that, we're very sensible people. The French aren't; they're insane and intoxicated, the drunken oafs. Whereas we Dutch folks are always calm and phlegmatic. She's lived in this apartment as long as I have. Judging by her peals of laughter, she might not see "Dutch" as in any way connected to "calm" or "phlegmatic". Maybe she was thinking of some other allegedly Dutch people?
How many Dutch people does she actually know?

You know, not everyone is as Dutch as they claim to be.
They might actually be Belgian, but hiding it.
Or, bog-forbid, French. Those people.
The Dutch I know are rational.

One of the pipes I smoked is the bent billiard pictured above, which Tiberio gave me ten years ago after I had cleaned up a number of his Blue Ribands. I associate it with rainy Fall afternoons in Chinatown. It seems that it rained a lot during that period, but that's probably shaded memory. Still, I remember the pavement on that particular street glistening, wet.

The other pipe I loaded up is one that during that same period alternated with a straight sandblast panel from a long-gone shop in Hollywood. I stopped taking it to work with me because one coworker really liked it, for unremarkable reasons, and I'm often petty.

That was also the same year when an elderly gentleman toppled sideways on Grant Avenue, and I realized that my abilities in Cantonese were not as useful as I would have liked, at that time. My speaking skill was glib, but not necessarily useful. I lacked the vocabularly to have been any help at all during that event.

I still haven't sharpened it all very much.



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THE FIRE SEASON

Something like seventy thousand customers in Northern California are without power during hot weather because of fire danger. So they're also without their airconditioning. Two things stand out here: those are "European conditions", so the suffering is immense and somehow disapproving, and also they won't be able to read this or any other liberal opinions and wisdom on the internet. Unless they have back-up generators.

Oh, and food becomes a bit iffy under these circumstances.

PG&E, let us not forget, is a capitalistic enterprise.

Their only concerns are profit and liabilities.


Complete fetterlessness.


So you're totally on your own boys, and screw you. Jesus hates you and loves big capitalism. That's why the folks in all the red states want you to suffer, with your marijuana and sage and hot tubs and gluten-free all natural lifestyle, free expression, and hippie habits. Texas and the rest of them spit on you. And on the graves of your pet gerbils.

One of my friends lives somewhere in that zone. I hope that he is not discomfitted, and is smoking his pipe on his veranda peacefully, patiently awaiting the return of electricity. He likes many of the same pipe tobaccos as myself, and I happen to know he is well-stocked at present. So as long as there is some way to make coffee, things will be kind of okay.

If the power was turned off in San Francisco, within hours locals would grab their pitchforks and head over to the PG&E offices on Market Street . We know where they are. Which, of course, is precisely why they would only shut off the electric power in the city under extreme circumstances. Forcing us to go without coffee for half a day would be a death sentence for them. And frozen drinks. Gotta have those frozen drinks.

Imagine Texas without lousy beer. Precisely so. Lukewarm Lone Star. Or Coors.

That would be like the South of France.
And we can't have that.
Anarchy.



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A HAND THERE

The turkey vulture has been fed -- he's presently sitting on her chair licking his chops, or rather, whatever passes for chops when you only have a beak -- the HVAC at a certain city administration building is on the fritz again, as it appears to always be when the weather is unbearable, and we're surprised that not many more people are sick because of it, and all election literature that arrived today has been thrown out.

It was mid eighties during the afternoon.
So I didn't leave the house.

Two things: Pears are as good as root vegetables in certain savoury dishes, which is very mediaeval, and always close your apartment mate's door before lighting up your pipe. This is important, irrespective of what you smoke. English or Balkan blends, Virginias and Virginia-Perique concoctions, Burley type tobacco mixtures and the like, or heaven forefend and damn you to all heck aromatic shite.

The less said about the pipe tobaccos habitually incinerated by the majority of pipe smokers the better. They're very popular, just like greasy fast food and weak burnt coffee, and I am appalled at how low people can go. Disgusted, and shocked. Good grief.

Aromatic shite is something you will not find in this apartment.
I am not a heathen, despite what you may have heard.

I am also, which is surprising given the weather, not naked but fully clothed. Tomorrow at work I shall also be fully clothed, even though it will be hotter than it was today.
I am not looking forward to that. I'd rather be naked.


There will be a naked turkey vulture in this apartment.
Wearing naught but a neckerchief.
Fetching!



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SAY, WHAT'S IN THERE ANYWAY?

One thing I learned from having watched the Minions is "never underestimate a dummy!" Also, "patagamoojaz". So this morning I woke up with water in my ear. Not enough to slake a thirst or relieve a drought, but, distinctly, water. Probably because my ear was tightly pressed against my pillow. Obviously almost the first thing I did was utilize an ear twiddly.

Years ago, being a cheapskate penny-pinching Dutchman, I had run out of ear-twiddlies, and used a pipe cleaner instead. Which then got stuck, and consequently I had to take a trip to SF General Hospital, where I got put in a room, after which over the next three hours various interns, medical students, and nursing staff members visited me to see the ear and tell me earnestly that one of the first, possibly very first, things they had been told as students in their chosen fields, was to NEVER stick anything smaller than an elbow in there.
I have no reason to disbelieve them, because they all said the same.
They were all on the same page regarding that.
So I trust them on this.

Never stick anything smaller than an elbow in your ear.

I have since then not run out of my ear-twiddlies.

Don't want to end up in the E.R. again.

They've got cell-phones now.


Had this been the Arctic, I would have pulled an icicle out after sticking an ear-twiddly in.

The inside of the ear should be dry enough that growing things do not find it a hospitable environment and thrive inside. This is selbstverständlich.

'Patagamoojaz' is a Minionish expression of approbation. At least I think it is, but it could also be a phrase of mild disapproval, like "Henry", "James", or "Brian". I'm not entirely sure.

It's been years.



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PLEASE, LET SOMEONE ELSE DO THAT!

In a move sure to strengthen "faith", dozens of Hong Kong Christian groups are protesting the territory's Hallowe'en Month tourism campaign. In strangely related news, I hear that it takes a dozen alprazolam tablets before someone decides to sexually violate a blow up Minnie Mouse hallowe'en doll on their neighbor's front lawn. Now, bear in mind that the Cantonese have a fondness for ribaldry, Rabbelaisian humour, and "street theatre" as performed by people who have lost their shiznit and are badly acting out in public.

They'll stop what they're doing, form an appreciate crowd (at a safe distance), and admire the performance. They don't know the person, but they keenly respect the sincerity.

Surely you remember that woman who had an epic (stellar, monumental) meltdown, lovingly caught on video, when she missed her flight at Hong Kong International Airport (Chek Lap Kok) several years ago? It was the quintessence of Hong Kong. She is immortal.
A veritable living goddess of wandertustigkeit.
Three minutes plus.


Consequently, I have certain ideas for areas in front of houses of worship.


The internet has been very good to me this morning.

You will be pleased to know that currently there are no typhoons forecast to hit Hong Kong in the next five days or so, although Champi is forming far out in the Pacific, and it will probably hit Guam by the weekend. But it probably won't get as far as Northern Luzon, and may only be a strong dulcet breeze if it ever hits Hong Kong. Precipitation will be mild. For the next day or two it could be too breezy to smoke your pipe outdoors, except for sheltered alleyways near whichever chachanteng in Kowloon or Kwuntong where you had lunch.


Bear in mind that smoking in Hong Kong has been banned in indoor workplaces, and most public places including airport terminals, banks, beaches, cinemas, concert halls, department stores, game arcades, internet cafés, police stations, public lavatories, public transportation conveyances and facilities, restaurants, shopping centres, supermarkets, plus most public parks, as well as bars, karaoke parlours, nightclubs, and saunas.

Littering in public places in Hong Kong is punished by a HK$3,000 fine. So dispose of your cigarette butts and used pipe cleaners responsibly, safely out of sight of busibodies and closed circuit cameras. During a typhoon you can safely smoke outside.



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TOTAL HE-MAN HYDRATION

My apartment mate has been asked to tend to the cat downstairs while our landlady is away. Which means that she feeds him, changes the litterbox, refills the water bowl and spends nearly an hour talking to him. He is a senior cat. So, technically, an old man. And by comparison I am a young fellow in the absolute prime of my life. Positively shining.

Which is NOT at all how I felt after upon returning home from my shopping expedition down in C'town today. It was over seventy degrees Fahrenheit on Stockton Street this afternoon, and because my circulation does not do what it's told, I felt wrecked.

I am good at hiding stuff like that, because most people have absolutely no understanding of the issue, or, if they even notice it, will helpfully tell me to just man through it, it's wonderful weather, and really I should complain less don't I know.

Or, and this is an extremely small minority, exclaim "oh you poor old toad, would you like a large cold beverage with ice cubes?" Which is very kind of her, but don't mind me I shall be okay in a short while.

And then I'll sit here like a lump for an hour or so waiting for the leg throbbing to stop.
Not moving, not breathing, involuntarily twitching and just not saying much.


So naturally, now that the temperature has finally gone down to mid-sixties, I have prepared myself a hot mug of tea. No milk, sugar, lemon, or honey. Just tea.

The great thing about most airports is that the inside temperature, even if it's in the middle of the Sahara desert, is sub arctic. Because airport staff prefer themselves and the passengers to be awake and alert, rather than limply melting in sweltering heat. Everything functions so much better when it's that way. Yeah, the hot asfalt outside would fry an egg, but room temperature is, ideally, slightly on the colder side.

Perhaps not in Las Vegas or Hawaii, and definitely not Florida.
But we're talking normal people, not tanned iguanas.
Honestly, cover up those tattoos.
And those icky navels.
Or nipples.


No shirt, no shoes, no entry under any circumstances.
Not even if terrorists are shooting at you.
Or speed-freak ICE agents.



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A COMFORTABLE CITY OF THE MIND

It struck me that I do not have enough rattan furniture or end tables for teacups, ashtrays, and tins of tobacco I might be smoking in my pipes. Of course I also do not have enough space to put the ideal quantities of such furniture and the things which should go on top of them, or for that matter, extensive shelving. This being San Francisco, and the majority of apartments here being more or less pokey little holes for office drooges.
So basically, I do not have enough money to live spaciously.

It's not that the modern urban world is unfair.
Merely that I perceive it as flawed.
Unfair to me.

Not nearly comfy enough.

It always surprises me that so many people wish to live here when it's far too expensive for me to have all the living space I need, which would basically be an entire building. What is wrong with them? Do they not realize that their mere existence impacts negatively?

I also would like more books. About fifteen more shelves.
Both of the bedrooms have bookshelves.
As well as the teevee room.

Naturally, a patio or terrace which catches the morning sunlight would also be nice. One might enjoy a hot caffeinated beverage there at the beginning of the day. Preferably near running water in the middle distance and frolicking badgers just beyond the field of vision.

And bobcats, to keep the raccoons and possums away.

In a further separation from reality, a coffeeshop a block or two away with no wifi, with fresh daily newspapers well worth reading, and not a shred of boba or flavoured syrup anywhere.

Both it and the nearby second hand bookstore with comfortable chairs open long past midnight, especially when it's raining, with smoking permitted inside.
Briar pipes and filterless Turkish cigarettes preferred.



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NUTS A BUS

Perhaps it was the coffee, perhaps the excess of chocolate. Having been up since five in the morning I needed a jolt before heading out to North Beach for the weekly pubcrawl, and sometimes too much caffeine or theobromine makes me slightly paranoid or inclined toward suspicious concern. Who are these dubious individuals, and why are they standing so close? Have they bathed? Recently? Perhaps together? Fortunately the bus arrived before I could ask personal questions.

The girl who got on at the same time looked, by contrast, very intelligent.
And altogether like a real person, with a likable personality.
Very possibly freshly showered, with good habits.
And a highly functioning brain.

While smoking my pipe in Chinatown I came to the conclusion that most humans are rather mundane pedestrian creatures without much distinction, unless I know them and have seen them before. Especially that family of Spaniards, and why do some of the men look like thoroughly vicious Euro-trash? Ape-like, and quite remarkably stupid.

Spaniards. We fought an eighty years war against them.
Should have sunk many more of their ships.
Fire and sword, bastards.

The smoke proved salutory and calming. I was fully human again by the time the bookseller arrived, and for some odd reason the temperature seemed much better too. The good effect of the caffeine was kicking in.

At one point we ended up discussing cans of tuna fish as well as sardines. Sadly, anchovies were not mentioned, and I think that was a grievous omission. Late night snacking while cruising the internet is not just beer, cheese, and cookies. An array of fishy substances seems essential. Though under no circumstance those nasty smoked baby oysters.
Smoked salmon is a plus. Omega-3 fatty acids, for fetal development.
As well as, perhaps, a dab of caper mayonnaise.
Gold fish crackers don't count.


While waiting for the bus there was berserk mumbling from further up the block, unconnected to the stoned individual who weaved and stumbled past, or the woman walking in the middle of the street, very unstable, giggling loudly. Whom I feareded might veer into the path of the bus within the next block, but mercifully did not. The late night street life is getting weirder. Spaniards, drunks, and crazies.



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A PEACEFUL MOMENT

Well over a decade ago I wrote about grasshoppers. No,not the insect. The drink of doubtful life decisions. Which consists of equal parts Crème de Menthe, clear Crème de Cacao, and half&half. Shaken well over ice and poured into a large cocktail glass. Several of my friends despise concoctions like that, but there are pipesmokers in this country who would love it as an aromatic tobacco flavour. I'm sure Sutliff or Peterson's have experimentd with it, as well as probably Samuel Gawith. 'Oh, just slap a colourful label on the tin and name it "Hobbit's Hearth" or some such poofle, the Americans will love it. They'll smoke anything'.

It probably did the rounds of all the pipeclubs, to great acclaim.
Much like Rattray's 'Passion Fruit Orange cupcake'.
Not it's real name, lovely tin art.


I myself have nearly a full tin of that stuff. As an American I'm occasionally subject to fits of depravity, and bought it on a perverse whim. I smoked all of three bowls. Same number as 'The Beast', by Cornell & Diehl, a far better product even though it's over fifty percent rum soaked Perique, and smells very remarkably like an erupted sebaceous cyst.

It's been nearly three years. Haven't done a fourth bowl.
But I might try 'The Beast' again.
Just because.


Civlized pipe tobacco, as everyone knows, has no flavourings added but stands on it's own, precisely like decent coffee and tea concoctions. Fruity crap is for imbeciles, juveniles, and people of exceptionally poor judgement.

I still remember the Englishman at the cigar dive who smoked strawberry and vanilla cream pipetobacco. No, he hadn't gone native, he was just visiting, but he had extremely bad taste.

At present I am puffing on a bowl of dark flake, enjoying a cup of tea, and reading Simenon. The sun is obliquely lighting up the room, and there is a stuffed turkey vulture sleeping in the other chair. If I were tromping through a soggy cow-pasture, side stepping fresh pies, I might find the perfume of strawberry vanilla cream welcome, but that is not the case.

Dark flake is subtle. Delicate and old-fashioned.

It presents a lingering fragrance that fades into the background, not at all objectionable, which my apartment mate will only subconscious register when she returns home.
By which time I'll have put the pipe down and will look studiously innocent.

The turkey vulture will not rat me out.
I bribed him with noodles.
And he's asleep.



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THEY CAN DO THAT?

Actions performed this morning: Two cups of coffee, bathroom, dressed, bussed, and eye doctor's appointment. Then purchased a cup of Hong Kong Milk Tea to-go, and went into Hang Ah Alley (香雅巷) to enjoy my pipe (煙斗). Where I observed several old gentlemen on the other side of the fence on the basket ball court shooting hoops. Some just doing it for the exercise (physical jerks for the elderly), some displaying great skill. Or repeated luck.
Yeah, if I were to assay an attempt, the ball would probably go missing.
I am not the most adept at sporty stuff.

When visiting any medical office I make it a point to be cheerful and good natured. The folks who work there probably see far too many depressed people screaming about going blind, having heart attacks, not getting it up, foot hurts like heck, and whatnot. Which even for the sunniest disposition must be a downer. So no need to add on to that. As far as the glaucoma is concerned, pressure in the eyes is stable, so while I am going blind, as are we all, it should take very many more years. Possibly even decades. The cataracts haven't progressed to the point that we might do something about that yet either. The specs are for that crucial twelve or so inches in which, hypothetically, there might be chopsticks, a fork, a pipe, or a hot cup of Hong Kong Milk Tea. I can not see whether the person across the busy street is stunning and has a personality or resembles a grouchy space alien, but that's okay. Given my dating life for the past decade plus (quite non-existent) it's entirely immaterial.

So a grouchy space alien would be an improvement.


When I got home I ate chocolate.

We have a tonne of high quality Swiss chocolate in the house. Not for Hallowe'en -- because we live at the back of the building the little monsters never come to the door -- but for "other reasons". As well as salt and pepper chicken wings. More "reasons".

Think of all of these as 'brain food'.


Today is a good day to sit on my duff and smoke. It's sunny outside, I have few other things scheduled other than the eye appointment, and I have been up and reasonably alert since five in the morning when I made that first cup of coffee.


I am amazed at the physical co-ordination of those old fellows.
Basket ball. Goodness me.



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THE COMING CLIMATE CHANGE

Eye doctor, a scan of the right leg, also a scan of the carotids, plus covid vaccine, and other than periodic pill refills I will be medically done for the year. Then it will be party time. But in a restrained and altogether civilized fashion, because excess isn't my thing. It might have been when I was much younger, and we shan't get into that. Everything is an understatement.

Appointments every week, evenly spaced apart.
But it's all soon, babies, soon.
Before month end.

It's three weeks till election, and hopes that the Republicans (Fascists) and Fundamentalist Christians (Fascists) will peacefully accept their defeat are, sadly, crumbling into dust. I am keeping my mouth mostly shut at work, because I do not trust those boys in the backroom. Yes, they are old, senile, gibbering, and impotent. But they and their kind can cause a lot of trouble. Just imagine what a horde of enraged rabid morons could do. We'll probably see them mowed down with cattle prods before it's over. Broken shot glasses everywhere.
Like a bunch of frat boys got loose.

My preparations for "civil war" consist of taking care of all medical matters, and having an extra supply of hot sauce, salt fish, tea, coffee, and fancy Chinese cigarettes.
If this were Europe, I would also stock up silken stockings.

And by extra, I mean more than I actually need.
Not a particularly excessive supply.
This ain't The South.

All the Joe-Bobs, Bubbas, and Billy-Bobs down there probably have a ten year supply of grits and bad American beer in their garage just in case. It's the commanits, boy, acopalibs comin'!

And a hundred jerry cans of petrol hidden under the house.
Plus shotguns, grenades, and toilet paper.
There's one on every block.



Do you really know how much of an idiot your neighbor is?
I do. And I am not visiting. Ever.




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THE APPLE OF MY EYE

This morning, in that half wake period before actually waking up, I realized that in speaking Indonesian to a fellow from the neighborhood in my dream, I had said something incorrect. Which is not surprising, as my Indonesian is now far from fluent, kind of rusty, and was not au courant even at the best of times. Colonial era Malay learned from classmates and adults in my vicinity in the Netherlands long after Indonesian independence, and even after the events of Lubang Buwaya. Not good, but semi okay. still. Flawed.

Sometime during the morning the phone rang. I answered as I alway do in in Cantonese. Because most calls I receive are spam, and foreign languages baffle them. "Do you speak English?" Wai, may-ah? "Do you speak English, sir?!?" Nei hai pin-go? Nei dim gai taa din waa pei ngoh-ah? My friends, in those extremely rare occasions when they call, would tell me in English to cut it out. And medical staff would interact in Cantonese anyway. Before, as the eye-doctor's office person did, switching to English because it is somewhat ridiculous to continue in Cantonese when speaking to a Kwailo whom they know is quite fluent in that language, and not entirely quite so in Cantonese. Un-native sounding.

I have never needed to speak Dutch on the phone.

My Cantonese is passable, better than my Indonesian.
And there is no need to NOT baffle call centers.
So English is out of the question entirely.

Anyhow, eye doctor's appointment tomorrow. Crack of dawn.

Naturally I shall have a pipe picked out for smoking aftwards, which will be in my coat pocket along with a pouch of tobacco. I had to search through various storage boxes to find it, having taken it out of the regular rotation probably over a year ago.
It is of a very suitable shape.

COMOY SUNRISE APPLE

An eye-ball on a stick made by Comoy back in the stone age.
So it's absolutely perfect for the occasion.
And an excellent smoke besides.
I am looking forward.

COMOY LONDON PRIDE APPLE

Either illustrated briar would be perfect, but the top specimen is probably the one. A man should always have the perfect pipe upon his person. A woman too. If the woman doesn't, a gentleman will be able to lend her one. The reserve which is not in use.
So two pipes. Because of course.



The apple is not my favourite shape, but it is indeed one of which I am very fond. Good to hold. I have several of them, various makes. Years ago Pauline at Drucquer's had a lovely Sasieni apple, tan sandblast, which made grown men drop their jaws when they saw it.
"Nice, huh?", she would say when she noticed them drooling, then smile.
I haven't seen Pauline in very many years. Since FWB.
But I hope she still has that apple.



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