YOU ALREADY KNEW THAT!

What with being in some ways so far down the spectrum that sunlight doesn't always penetrate when I'm there and the trainstation seems abandoned (forgive the similes that make scant sense to you), you won't be suprised at all when I say that numbers appeal immensely. Odd numbers. Cardinals. Prime. Multiples. And patterns. So in many ways something like six four four three is exactly the same as six four four four. 6443. 6444.

Six, fours, and three. Three numbers following the six. In that first instance, the three is actually stated, in the second, it is shown by example. Divisibles, three.
And a pattern.

Yeah, I play the lottery. You cannot win unless you play, but the chance difference between one ticket and a thousand is exactly zilch. You will loose either way. But is the infinitissimal increase in possibilities, averaging out to the price of a crappy cup of coffee a couple of times a week, that matters. Who knows? This might be your lucky millenium!

No, I do not dig numerology. That's bunkum.
But in a fractional way I've shifted the balance of fate, and with my luck that will probably prove me wrong, so I might win. I've already won less than forty dollars over nearly thirty years. Which I spent on coffee, I think.

I ran across the sequence 6443, 6444 while on the computer.

6443, 6444.

Think of it as the mental digestive process in action. There might be gas.


There is absolutely no meaning or message in those numbers. No deeper significance other than their momentary appeal to what I can only describe as a twist to my aesthetic sense.

Do not try to interpret them any other way.

But go ahead and play the lottery.



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DO NOT BE ALARMED

When I came back it was sort of precipitative outside. Damp. Light rain off and on, wet sidewalks, kind of English. My apartment mate was coming out of our land lady's place, having fed the resident cat while our landlady is overseas in a place where although she is surrounded be extremely distant relatives, none of them speak the only version of Chinese that many people in San Francisco know: Toishanese. Some English is likely.
So it's a very foreign place indeed. Albeit one with good food.
Probably a major reason to visit.

My apartment mate was softly singing the 'happy turkey vulture song'.
Which is all about harvestable fatty inner thighs.
They are yummy!


When two people live together, and both of them move around gracefully without stumbling or banging into things, it is useful to make slight sounds in order that one not startle the other. Like, for instance, the 'turkey vulture song' or the 'head sheep song'. Or even the 'one legged monkey song'. Seeing as I don't sing, I sometimes sound like Bill The Cat instead, or one of the underpants gnomes from South Park.

This is expecially important when the bathroom is involved.
Or returning home while someone is in the kitchen.

It's pro-active, and prevents screaming.
As a startled person might.
Unhypothetically.

After the first pipe of the day, out there on the grim Scottish moors (actually Nob Hill, so not grim at all, except in early morning) one is sufficiently prepared for the second cup of coffee and doomscrolling on the computer, or, a few days a week, heading off to work to deal with the idiots. Today is not an idiot day.

Reassuringly I fondle my pipe. It is a Peterson apple straightgrain, a very touch feely object, and does not actually need reassurance, being cocky and full of itself.
Sings when filled with dark mature Virginias.


On average there are about three dozen pipes in the rotation, there is no order or system, each pipe goes at least three days between smokes, and one or two pipes might not get smoked more than once or twice in a given month. Though the Tuesday evening pub-crawl pipe gets used every week. At present time that pipe is a Dunhill bruyere billiard 59, for several years it was a Comoy Sunrise.

There are quite a few Comoy pipes, including offbrands and subbrands, in my collection. They are among my favourites. Back before the company was taken over by Cadogan, Comoy made some of the best pipes. Good briar, well-designed.


I have no idea what the resident cat thinks about my pipes. Cats are usually okay with such things, but being 'Chinese' he might have a different opinion. But he's male, so he might be on my side. Also, he's old and grumpy. Those are good things.



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LOOK MAH, A BEAST!

For the first time in several weeks the weather is perfect. Low to mid sixties (°F), overcast, dull and grey, slightly wet. It started to rain as I was near the end of my pipe bowl, and was distinctly doing so after I finished and by the time I was up near the intersection. Rain, but almost apologetic about that. You could tell that its heart wasn't in it. So I was slightly damp at the shops, and the lady at the last one had pulled the sidewalk carts in to prevent the display getting wet. Not real rain. Sort of half a posterior's worth of rain.

It kept the tourists away, though. That was good.
Perhaps they melted. Except the Germans.
Germans are quieter than Latins.
Or Midwestern visitors.
Trimmer too.


While loitering after lunch I saw one of the local merchants carrying his cat while going to get something to eat. A patient animal, used to the concept. When he returned he put if down in front of the outside carts, where it wandered and lurked, on the look-out for old ladies with petsome hands. I did not go over to stroke the animal because I was smoking.

I'll have to make its acquaintance some other time.

I briefly toyed with the idea of stopping somewhere for milk tea and a pastry, but one bakery is out of the question because of the cold old geezers, and another is on my tish list because of the apathy of the counter woman who would clearly prefer not to be bothered. And, as you know, I am an unlikable kwailo, so I don't count for much at some places.

To a certain extent I am often merely part of the landscape. Old trees on a golfcourse or something. At my favourite lunch spots they are always happy to see me, courteous and respectul, because I am not a Karen, speak the language and clearly read it too, and I like the people who work there. And I tip very well, because I want to be remembered favourably for the next time (and their prices are way too low in this economy). One's tip should always really be commensurate with the pleasure of being somewhere and the time spent, not so much the actual prices. The other day I spent nine dollars on food and tipped six dollars.

Because I was one of the last customers today, I tipped over sixty percent. Sorry, I'm not a full table, and I will take my time, but I thoroughly appreciate your hospitality.
As well as the calmness, attention, and "cleanth".


Cup of milk tea at home, no pastry.
And a Jinsheng cigarette.
From the stash.



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DOING SOMETHING RIGHT

Throughout the day at work I swill tea. Up to six or seven cups. This is something I have done for decades, and now it turns out that it was actually good for me. Tea slows down peripheral artery disease, lowers cholesterol, boosts some of the good stuff in the blood, is sort of heart-healthy and all of that. Reduces risk of cardiovascular ailments, generally improves brain and muscular health, and may lead to British and Irish ideas .....
I do it for hydration, and it makes me feel good.
Zipped to the eyebrows.

This is, in fact, a classic example of finding and remembering data that supports what one always thought. The internet has, not surprisingly, strengthened a foregone conclusion. Textbook confirmation bias.


Still. nearly three billion people can't be wrong. Actually they can and often are, but I am going to damned well ignore that. Three billion people probably love Donald Trump, and obviously if they do they're batshit, quite out of their minds. Pudding brains in toto.
The internet will also generously support that point of view.

I like tea, and I think they're nuts.

The Irish, who down sheer buckets of tea, are, judging by recent Irish utterances, clearly stone-cold halfwits, as well as given to several horrible fallacies, inclined to brutality and violence even at the best of times, and altogether repulsive. Deservedly regarded as the Albanians of Europe.

Americans, who drink less tea than anybody, share many if not most of those characteristics with the Irish and have a tendency toward religious excess and sheer flaming heresy, are the Albanians of the Western Hemisphere. Especially in The South, where they habitually wash down their greasy fried food and too much of it, with sweetened ice tea, thus counteracting the blood pressure lowering benefits, improved cholesterol, reduced risk of cardiovascular disease, and what should have been a decrease in their chances of diabetes.

Texans, who drink watery beer instead, are, generally speaking, morons with hats far to big for their puny brains but which match their outsized egos and sense of self-worth.
They'd be far more tolerable if they drank tea.


Go ahead; prove me wrong.



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WRINKLES IN THE FABRIC OF EXISTENCE

As I was lighting up my pipe after getting off the pipe in Chinatown a little girl stared at me aghast. I'm not sure why. Was it my whiteness, coupled with frightening smoke and flames? Or was it something else? The smell, perhaps, redolent of the pit and eternal torment. In her mind's eye it may have been. Probably none of her relatives smoke, at least not where she can see them. 'Don't go outside, Ah Mei, grandpa ("gong gong") is doing something nasty out there'. And grandpa ("gong gong") enjoys the blessed peace. Because little girls doing their homework in the evening ask impossible questions.

"Who was Harriet Beecher Stowe, and why have Florida and Texas banned her book from the school libraries?" "Which famous liberal president was killed because no one tried to stop a criminal republican plot that enabled a primed nutcase fall guy with a rifle to get up to the sixth floor and calmly take aim?" "Which wife abusing, roadkill snarfing, dead raccoon penis harvesting, addle-brained sewage swimming raspy-voiced drug addict conspiracy theorist crackpot has done more for the come-back of measles than almost anybody else?"

These are all valid questions. He appreciates the tyke learning things.
He had always heard American education was pretty bad.
But perhaps California is exceptional.

You know she'll grow up to be a doctor, right? At seven years old she can already read and write better than most current college students. In two languages. Gong gong is chuffed.

As well he should be. But her seeming disapproval of me lighting my pipe does not sit well. People are so darn judgemental nowadays! Can't we all just get along?
I'm not surprised that gong gong likes being outside.
And by the way, I am not a demon.

Kid probably never saw a Dutch American before. Obviously there aren't enough of us. Things would be so much better in this country if we outnumbered the Anglos.
Everyone knows that.

Alleyways are good places for pipesmokers, as there are fewer people about. Who might say positive things, like "classic pipe, man", or "you rock". Children, however, are not often so complimentary.


Anyway, the Doppler ultrasound scan (多普勒超聲波檢查 'do pou laak chiu sing po gim chaa') of the right pedal extremity (右腳 'yau keuk') which was scheduled today got postponed for a bit because the tasked person was out sick. The clinic wishes to see if the angioplasty last year is holding up. So early afternoon, when I answered the phone in Cantonese as I alway due because of spam calls and scammy Indian call centres, there was an actual Cantonese speaker at the other end of the line. Which is a rare occurence. That gave me additional time to go enjoy an artery-clogging meal. Which with gusto I did.

Later the bookseller and I went to all the usual places, not running into Tat Yee until we were ready to head toward the bus stop. This truly has been an excellent day. Smoke and grease, babies, smoke and grease.



We avoided the karaoke joint. Misguided souls inside were singing "all I want for Christmas is you" when we passed by. It took a few moments to recognize the song, they sung that badly. It is still far too early for that. At least wait until Thanksgiving!
And even then it will be too early.



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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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