Wednesday, September 30, 2009


France has finally conceded, albeit grudgingly, that committing statutory rape on an American girl is a crime. Even if the girl is very American (wow, naked Hollywood teenager!), and even if the rapist is a respected European artist.

This will no doubt come as a shock to many Europeans.

QUOTE: The French government has dropped its public support for Roman Polanski, saying the 76-year-old director "is neither above nor beneath the law".

"Darn," I can already hear you saying, "now what am I going to do on my American vacation?"
It's a good question. You had plans. I understand that. Now you have to rethink things. Very inconvenient.

Perhaps you could leave your penis at home?

We do have plenty of European pricks over here already. More aren't required.

Roman Polanski, a notable European artist and intellectual, had apparently first gotten the girl drunk, then ignoring her pleas and no's raped and sodomized her. After which he found sanctuary in France against the idiotic American justice system, which just didn't understand that he was an important European artist and intellectual, and the victim merely an American teenager - a throw-away lustobject by any rational measure.

For over thirty years the French loyally protected Roman Polanski.

Despite saying no and pleading with him, by French standards the girl must have wanted it or deserved it, because she was an American.

Roman Polanski is an admired European artist and intellectual.

NO equals NON equals NEIN equals ...... NO!

Sex with a thirteen year old, even if she is an American (ergo, not a European) is a crime.
While we gladly admit that thirteen year-olds may actually be delicious sexual beings, and are entitled to pursue their zesty urges con mucho brio, we do NOT accept that an adult may have sexual relations with a thirteen year old. Legally, she is not of an age at which she can be assumed to make rational and well thought out decisions. She is not part of the adult world, she is not a full member of responsible society.

An adult conjugating a minor is taking advantage of the minor.
Liquor and sexual assault - these are not, strictly speaking, part of a normal sex-life.
Even if the girl is an American teenager and the man is a European.

No means no. If she isn't of permissible age, sane, and sober, yes also means no. Always.
Even if you are a European, and she is an American.
Sorry, that's just the way it is.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009


A friend has taken the plunge. No, I am not talking about marriage to a most unsuitable girl, though that may indeed lie in his future. I'm not judging.

Actually, I know far too little of his private life to judge in any case. There may be a note of frustration there. An emptiness, or a yearning, if you will. Something suggests it.

He has taken the plunge and entered the wine name/label "Tawdry Cellars" in a Naked Wines competition, and he would love it if you would take a second to vote for it!

You can vote here at this link:

Don't worry, Naked Wines won't e-mail or spam you! They only accept online votes and the person that gets the most wins.

This is democracy in action, folks, a real grass roots effort. Go vote! Your local trollops and ecdysiasts will be grateful.

May all your infections clear up with only a modicum of penicillin.


Picked up a tin of a particular tobacco at the store the other day. Haven't opened it yet. And probably won't for a year or two - it's a Virginia from a well-known manufacturer, and I don't smoke a lot of Virginia blends.

It has a nice label. I'm a sucker for nice labels. This one really looks like a hobbit would smoke the product.

Regarding it's salient characteristics, the angry trogs at Tobacco Reviews dot com leave no bones unturned:

"The stuff made a hissing sound in the bowl."

"There is a very sweet and artificial element that abounds."

"It tasted like it had a strange topping."

"Bizarre, I think."

"I tossed it in the trash because I simply had no use for it."

"Concentrated tomato paste, white vinegar, brown sugar, dried figs, pencil eraser."

"Will smoke some more when the summer heat subsides."

"A cloying note that gave me a headache and made me vaguely nauseated."

"Very strange."

"There is some weird topping added; very discreet, and very foul."

"It burns like a sunny day in hell."

"I will smoke it if offered, but most likely will not purchase another."

"I found when packing the pipe I had to remove some of the tree limbs, other than that it packed very well. If it weren't for the gaminess of the dingitude, this would be an excellent product."

"The taste (if you can find one) is bland and you'll burn your tongue so bad you'll be looking for the number to the Shriner's burn center."

After reading all that, I am very tempted to try it immediately. It sounds like a fascinating new friend.
But I will force myself to wait for at least a year. I just have too many open tins floating around the wallow right now.


Open tins:

Astleys No. 99 Royal Tudor, Cornell & Diehl Old College, Cornell & Diehl Yale Mixture, GLPease Maltese Falcon, GLPease Odyssey, Samuel Gawith Balkan Flake, Samuel Gawith Perfection, various MacBarens and Orlik products.

Plus several jars containing my own blends - two English style, one Scotch-style Balkan mixture, one Scotch-style Latakia mixture, one Scotch-style Perique mixture.
And something I call Dawg.


Monday, September 28, 2009


Normally I do not speak much of food on Mondays. Not because I do not eat, but because after a busy weekend it is not the first thing that pops into mind to blog about.

But today, I wish to speak of shrimp.

Apparently eating shrimp is an unbearably mean thing to do. Totally vicious and inhuman. It causes multiple suffering and bad karma from many lives snuffed out.

"You're eating shrimp!!!!! How cruel!!!!!"

The young person who squealed those words at her friend was aghast.
She explained that the consumption of shrimp showed a heartless disregard for the pain of so many small crustaceans, not just one individual animal. A vast assembly of suffering shrimp. Because in order to get even one pound of shrimp to market, several pounds of murdered shrimp are sacrificed - not presentable, missing limbs, too small, ugly......

Her friend continued eating with gusto. Apparently the collective agony (and bad karma) of shrimp did not move her in the slightest. Adding insult to injury, she audibly smacked her lips and dashed on some more hot sauce. And a squeeze of lime juice. Tasty!

"AND it ROBS other animals that DEPEND upon shrimp for food, so it has reverberations like you could not image!!!!!!""""

The harvesting of shrimp is an industrial affair, in which untold millions of small crustacean lives are snuffed out in unbearable agony.........

Huge piles, thousands of poor poor shrimp, gasping and convulsing on the cold cold deck of a large factory ship.......


Of course, the logical conclusion here is that it is far more merciful to eat large quadrupeds that have been quickly killed, skinned, and butchered. Just one death, with speed, rather than thousands dying, slowly.

Bullet through the brain - whamm! Now clean the carcass and pack it in plastic.

Or ship it in a refrigerated truck to Chinatown.
Often, after a night on the town, I would return home along the quiet thoroughfares of C'Town in early morning, and observe the white-smocked butchers shlepping huge oink carcasses into their shops.
Ah, pale dawn, fresh pink flesh, and a lifeless trotter hanging down!
It's poetry!

The Chinese do fabulous things with pork. It is, from their perspective, a miraculous beast.
One of the very best dishes is chunks of fatty pork steamed with ginger and .... shrimp paste.

Friday, September 25, 2009


A correspondent who is newly posted to the barbaric hinterlands sent a plea that speaks volumes of the primitive hickville swamp-burg where he is in exile.

Well, actually, that is not quite correct.
It really indicates that he is seriously buckling down and working, rather than off gallivanting around town with the hot hot hot shiksas.
Oh, those zesty native girls. A hardship.

He asked "how does one order a 50g tin of Dunhill London Mixture via the intertubes?"

The question establishes three things.
He is spending much time at his desk with the books.
He is running out of stuff to smoke.
He has good taste.

"How does one order a 50g tin of Dunhill London Mixture via the intertubes?"

With an excess of faith.
That's how one orders London Mixture.
Seriously, good luck. It may no longer be available.

There are several stores that do business over the internet.
I have dealt with these two:

Cup O` Joes:


In lieu of Dunhill London Mixture, you might like Cornell & Diehl's Red Odessa. It has less Turkish, but is a profoundly old-fashioned style English blend.
Of course there's also the GLPease stuff - Westminster comes to mind - but that may not be what you are looking for.
[I say this because I know that you have been exposed to much of the Dark Lord's domain. If it satisfied you, you would not need to consult me.]

Other good medium-range English mixtures with a Turkish overtone are Peterson's Old Dublin, Esoterica (actually Germain's) Margate, and J. F. Germain & Sons Latakia Mixture or King Charles Mixture.
All are deliciously degenerate.

There's also Samuel Gawith's Squadron Leader - a perfect Balkan style blend, very old fashioned, nicely reeky. Bit of a broad cut, which makes it a little hard to get used to, but once you've got the rhythm of it, delightful.


In regards to "read-testing" a blend before you buy it, tobacco reviews dot com ( is a good resource, and can be very amusing, as a pipe smoker who realizes he just spent fifteen dollars on a tin of boggy sphagnum he would never touch again, even if it were the last tobacco on earth, becomes a very angry, very venomous, very eloquently foaming at the mouth critic. Such a man's review will spill out in lyric sputtering rage exactly how he feels about the heart-wrenching loss of fifteen bucks. The heavens will tremble, the earth will shake, and all the world will know of his agony, despair, and righteous indignation, by gum. He has been robbed, and he seeks justice!

Many of such reviews are seriously good reading.
You will really feel for the bereaved cheapskate.
Or resolve to rib him without mercy if ever you meet him.


On a different note, I think I have succeeded in blending Arcadia. Arcadia is properly called the Craven A Mixture, which was formerly produced by Carrerras, and has long been unavailable.


The writer J. M. Barrie was a customer of Carrerras at Wardour Street during the 1890s. His book 'My Lady Nicotine' mentions the Arcadia Mixture, which he later admitted was actually Craven A. With Barrie's approval Carrerras featured this in his advertising, thus cementing the association of Craven A with Arcadia - which Arthur Conan Doyle subsequently drove home in 'The Crooked Man': "Hum! You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of your bachelor days, then!" (Holmes to Watson upon entering the latter's bachelor digs).
From 'The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes', by Arthur Conan Doyle, published in 1894.]

Arcadia was heavier on the Orientals than a regular English blend, though lighter on Latakia than you would assume. It had a range of Virginias for several different notes of flavour, and a touch of Kentucky ("Toasted Cavendish") to accentuate the Turkish.

Drucquer & Sons had a blend called Arcadia when I worked there in the seventies and eighties. It was quite good - very Oriental, though with a smidge too much Kentucky.
McClelland acquired a decades-old tin of the Craven A Mixture in the late nineties or early two-thousands, and analyzed it meticulously, eventually producing 'Arcadia' as part of their Sherlock Holmes series. It is decent, but it has that well-known McClelland characteristic, and to my mind far too heavy a Virginia taste.
Craig Tarler of Cornell & Diehl avers that his Yale Mixture is in fact the nearest approximation of the famous blend. I will gladly admit that I am fond of it, and will attest that it is a very fine product indeed.

But personally, I think they're all wrong. Of course.
What I have comes closest to Arcadia.

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


NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.

Thursday, September 24, 2009


As if their hatefilled anti-Gay demonstrations, and repulsive protests at the funerals of soldiers killed in Afghanistan and Iraq weren't enough, the Westboro Baptist Church now intends to holler obscenities at Jews.
This coming Saturday, the inbred kin of pastor Fred Phelps will be bringing profound dishonour to the Christian Religion by holding up signs that say "God hates Jews" outside Congregation Beth Elohim in Brooklyn.

See this post:

Congratulations, mister Phelps, you stand in the company of such luminaries as Torquemada, Pope Pius VII, Martin Luther, Hitler, Stalin, Ahmedinejad, David Duke, and Mahmoud Abbas.

Blogger Adam Holland has promised to post a follow-up to the visit by those wacky Baptists. Please visit his blog ( to see what happens next.
I promise you, the most interesting behaviour will not be demonstrated by the members of Congregation Beth Elohim. After all, they are civilized. Which is something that Fred Phelps and his inbred brood manifestly are not.

More of Pastor "I hate everybody" Phelps and his family's zany antics can be read here:

From the Daily Oklahoman: "Shirley Phelps-Roper, leader of the Westboro protest, said the church stopped at OU as part of a love campaign across the country ... "

Love campaign?

Harry's Place will probably also cover the event.

I strongly doubt that Harry's Place (or anybody else) will be favourably inclined to these Topekan yutzes.


Yesterday eleven rabbis got arrested. No, not because of anti-Semitism in some backward country, but because of a principled stand against Ahmedinejad and the Iranian threat.

Read about it:

Fellow blogger Steg (dos iz nit der Šteg) was there.
He writes: "The police threatened them with arrest, and most of the protestors moved aside, but 11 stood (sat?) their ground and went all the way in order to highlight dramatically the danger that Pres. Ahmadinejad of Iran poses to his own people, to America, to Israel and to the rest of the world."

He posts several dramatic photos.

Please visit his blog and comment.

By protesting, by being there when there was a need to be there, they increased good in the world.
Bravo, gentlemen.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009


White men are guilty of everything. And, in Alice Walker's cramped field of vision, you can't hardly get any whiter than the Jews. That, more than anything else, seems to be the message of her dark womb-o-centric harangue in Tikkun Magazine, delivered as a note of guilt-inducement before Yom Kippur.

Seldom have I read so loathsome, so appalling, so utterly black-hearted a screed as the turgid overblown pile of pro-Hamas propaganda that Ms. Walker sees fit to dish up for Michael Lerner's spirituality-starved acolytes, in her recent essay "Overcoming Speechlessness: A Poet Encounters ‘the Horror’ in Rwanda, Eastern Congo, and Palestine/Israel".

Here is Uriel Hellman of JTA describing the execrable thing:
"In her Tikkun essay, "Overcoming Speechlessness: A Poet Encounters ‘the Horror’ in Rwanda, Eastern Congo, and Palestine/Israel," Walker calls suicide bombings "last-ditch resistance," and says it’s dishonest to engage in "blaming the oppressed for using their bodies where the Israeli army uses armored tanks."
She also is under the mistaken impression that the Palestinians are descendants of the ancient Philistines and that Rachel Corrie was Jewish and was killed by a tank."

End cite.

What he avoids describing in any great detail is Ms. Walker's tendency to posit the conflict in stark terms of 'good' (women equals non-white equals victim equals just equals Palestinian) versus 'evil' (white imperialist equals America equals murder, bloodshed, rape equals the West equals racism equals Israel).

Quote:"These whites who tormented us daily were like Israelis who have cut down millions of trees planted by Arab Palestinians and stolen Palestinian water, even topsoil. They have bulldozed innumerable villages, houses, and mosques, and in their place built settlements for strangers who have no connection whatsoever with Palestine."
End quote.

There are other equally simplistic statements in her very long dull essay.

I have to believe that either Ms. Walker is extremely evil, or horrendously stupid.
As it seems unlikely that she is indeed so stupendously ignorant, though no doubt hardly well-informed, the assumption of evil, sheer vicious evil, hate-filled spiteful petty evil, is far more likely.

You may judge for yourself.

Her jejune and unimaginative manifesto can be viewed here:

Please drench your handkerchief with perfume before stepping into her puddle.



This may be a preamble to an in-depth critique of Ms. Alice Walker's assault on Israel, on Jews with a love for Israel, and on Jews who refuse to think exactly like her and her odious and despicable fellow-travelers.
I am not at all certain that I wish to subject myself to the nausea-inducing torture of rereading her essay over and over again - I have already reread it several times, you should see my notes!
It becomes more objectionable with each reading.

If I ever participate in a book-burning, It will be one of Ms. Walker's tomes that I will cast into the flames. Heretofore I had not imagined that I would even consider incinerating literature - I am not considering it now.

Do not buy Tikkun magazine. Michael Lerner and his disgusting publication do not need your money, and real toilet paper will not plug up the plumbing.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009


We carry scars from the past in our souls. What hurt many decades ago still floats to the surface in the quiet of the night; we must have pacifiers to distract us from unwelcome memories.

Books, entertainments, and pretty things - these are the baubles that lead the mind away from minefields.

Oh, and pipes and tobacco. Of course! What would life be like without pipes and tobacco?

During my childhood I developed a taste for good quality pipe tobacco, which cost four or five times as much as the pouched dreck common to the hordes. It was a profound hardship. There were many times when I did not know if I would be able to buy that precious tin of Balkan Sobranie or Dunhill London Mixture and I often worried that the tobacconist would raise the prices, or not order any more...... being seemingly the only person in Valkenswaard with a Latakia fetish was the full extent of my teenage angst.
Yes, you sympathize. I can tell.

[Balkan Sobranie Mixture: Somewhat less than half smoky Syrian (Latakia), nearly a quarter resinous Oriental (Yenidje from Thrace or Macedonia), and for the rest, charming flue-cured leaves (Virginia). It stank. But tasted very very nice indeed.
Dunhill London Mixture: More than forty percent Latakia, twenty four percent Turkish (Smyrna, Samsoun, etcetera), plus Virginia Cavendish, with perhaps a smidge of something else. It stank. But the taste was quite appealing.]

I am scarred - I got kicked out of a bar once for smoking Dunhill Nightcap.

[Dunhill Nightcap: Fifty percent plus of Latakia, on a base of dark Virginias and Cavendish. Need I mention that it stank? It was delicious!]


Recently I was at the local tobacconist, observing a transaction while I smoked. An elderly gentleman was buying a pipe for his son. Between the two of them they carefully examined most of the good quality briar in the store, before carefully choosing the specimen that pleased them both. After paying the father asked about certain tobaccos - he fondly remembered Balkan Sobranie.
Alas, Balkan Sobranie is no longer available, hasn't been for years. The Dunhill he asked about can no longer be found either. The fragrance of remembering has been diminished.

The son, being of a more recent vintage, was perfectly happy with Greg Pease's Westminster, and also smoked Abingdon - both are English style mixtures of Latakia, Oriental, and Virginias. His dad had brought him up well.
Evenso, he lacked some of the crucial background data necessary to fully participate in the conversation. His stinky memories are not the same as our stinky memories.
Our stinky memories are better. Much much better. Positively putrid.

After they left I purchased four tins of Germains - two Tilbury, two Dorchester.

I cannot remember which one of the two has been described as having a pronounced odeur of unwashed flatulent peasant, with a hint of citrus - both blends are aged Virginias mixed with other substances, so it could be either. At some point I shall find out.

It will be delightful.



Currently working on a tin of Cornell & Diehl's 'Old College' (#530), which is a robust and flavourful interpretation of full English with a touch of air-cured leaf among the Virginias, darkly fragrant. The tin has been aged for two years. It is very good.

Other English blends by Cornell & Diehl which smokers of English mixtures would like are Red Odessa (#968R) and Yale Mixture (#531). Red Odessa is quite enchanting, Yale reflects a less Oriental persona admirably. Both have substrata of some very lovely Virginias.

Craig Tarler has champions with these three products.
They are the past recaptured, in several wonderful ways.

As always, age first, then air a bit.


NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.

Monday, September 21, 2009


Having worked in an Indian restaurant, I am somewhat familiar with Indian food. Well, Indian restaurant food. Specifically, the food served at Indian restaurants in the United States.

Which is not the same as Indian food.

I have been told that REAL Indian food can only be found in England. At restaurants run by Sylhetis in London which stay open late at night so that pub-departees who do not wish to dine on Spam fritter or deepfried Snickersbar may enjoy their vindaloo or chicken tikka masala - the British national dishes of the working class and middle class respectively.

The English, as is well known, are experts on all matters Indian. Apparently they invented the place. Much like the Dutch invented civilization, and the French invented bread.

But anyhow.


I enjoy a nice bit of khana, and so does Savage Kitten. We regularly go up the road to an Indian restaurant to partake of their buffet, which contains the usual staples - various types of sabjee, including palak ka saag, as well as murgh makhni, a nice oily kheema matar, and tandoori chicken.
The naan is excellent, when just out of the kitchen.

It is interesting watching other people's behaviour at Indian buffet restaurants.

Type: WASP.
Overloads plate, glopping rich saucy food ontop of a mound of rice and other rich saucy food, precariously balancing naan and papad on top of the unstable pyramid. Seems afraid that if he doesn't grab as much as possible now, someone else will eat everything!

Type: EURY.
Approaches this strange foreign food with a combination of serious intellectual gravitas and paranoid caution. Will slowly, hesitantly, masticate alternating forkfulls of lettuce, gulab jamun, chicken, lamb, and samosa, before pronouncing it good and going for more exploratory pecking.

Needs as many arms as an Indian statue, due to habit of clearing out the vegetables, each on its own plate or in its own bowl. Takes great care not to combine foods - the lentil puree might disagree with the exquisite garbanzos. Is there dairy in this? Then I cannot eat it! Engages the staff in spiritually uplifting conversation - the words 'ashram', 'swami', 'devadassi', and 'Ooticamund' are likely to be heard.
Smiles blissfully.

Really, she only came along for the company, she has no intention of absorbing anything threatening. Cannot eat bread (gluten!), Indian vegetable preparations (peanut oil!), meat (meat!), fried foods (evil!), or anything with dairy in it (lactose intolerance). Dislikes rice. Is there any tofu on the premises? Fruit? Canned tempeh?
Oh but never mind me, I'm perfectly content with my glass of water!
Really, I am!!!!!

Type: DESI.
May or may not partake of the buffet - but will desperately order basket upon basket of naan, as only goralog eat cold breads turned spongy. Moves fingers of the right hand in careful gestures over the surface of the plate, forming little mounds of sabjee which are then swiftly and without spilling one iota conveyed to the mouth. Can usually do this without getting any food on the palm of the hand - unless they're from the south, in which case their enthusiasm will get gravies and rice up to the elbow.
If they are Sindhis, the hand descends swoopingly upon the food, like a carrion bird on a corpse. There is a grace to the speed with which such folk rip the flesh from fowl, then bite a crisp green chili - they will calmly break off a piece of papad, then return their fingers to the fray.
Punjabis, on the other hand, sensually digitize the food - yet without much fuss. They like feeling it, because the finger tips give forwarning of the luscious textures awaiting the mouth. Lots of buttered naan, lots of green chilies, lots of pickle. Onion!


I have no idea where the family at the other table was from. Grandma wore a dark blue sari and had her hair in a long braid. The father sat at the head, his wife to his left, his little daughter to his right. The little girl was the most interesting person at the table.

She may have been three years old already, but I suspect not - far too small.
But she was very capable for her age - she did not stick her fingers in her mouth while eating, and did not drop any of the food she picked up with her fingers. She ate very neatly, and unlike many infants did not wail or chatter or screech during dinner.
After the plates were cleared, she said brightly "oh look, everyone has finished". Perfect diction, and nicely modulated, a voice neither childish or yelpy.
She and her grandmother had a conversation which was too soft to understand, finished by her telling her grandmother firmly "oh but you really must come with us!"

There should be many more parents like hers. Normally I can't stand other people's infants. Judging by their daughter, these parents are examples worth emulating, especially by the types Wasp, Eury, Tattoo, and Allergic.
Who far too often have children without knowing what to do with them.

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.

Friday, September 18, 2009


Two days ago I mentioned, in passing, "I prefer not to discard underwear, or ignore it. Ever. Some underwear is in fact worthy of obsession, especially if nicely ruffled, with a bit of lace, tight, and of a pleasing fruity hue.
Such as I might be wearing right now. Maybe."

Please note the word 'maybe'. It really means 'very unlikely, extremely so, so unlikely as to be hardly even imaginable'. Not likely at all.
Unfortunately some readers may believe otherwise.

Spiros remarked: "Patel Sahib will be so grateful that you are not discarding underwear."
The next commenter under that post wrote: "Please, describe it more. I am all ears", followed by "It sounds heavenly".

I am not entirely clear what sounds heavenly - is that what you imagine nicely taut fruity panties with lace edging to sound like?

If so, I cannot help you. I do not own any panties with lace.


I do, however, posses one pair of raspberry pink panties, one pair of pale pistachio hued panties with white trim, a pale peach panty, and something rather naughty. They are different sizes, they do not fit me.
They are what you might call 'laundromat trophies'.

I would not be surprised if most men in this city have similar collections - if you use a laundromat, you tend to find such things when you return home.
Never any other garment, just panties. Women seem to be very careless about their panties at times. Just discarding them hither and thither, as the mood strikes. Quite gay and casual.

It's very strange. We men are NEVER casual about panties. From our point of view, they are probably the loveliest of garments - we often wish the attractive women in our lives would wear them.
And little else.
We men love panties.


Grant Patel will be keenly disappointed, I'm sure, to hear that for a brief shining moment I owned several hundred lovely cotton panties, in a variety of hues, cuts, and patterns. All of them petite.

In 1983 when I first visited the Philippines, I arrived with hardly any clothes, intending to have several items made while I was there. Except for forty cartons of American cigarettes, a crate of walnuts, pajamas, a conservative English tie, a blazer, and a phrase book, my luggage was pretty empty.
Somehow, I had forgotten to pack any underwear.

So I went to a department store in Makati. I had been up for close to forty hours, and I was tired, grumpy, and grotty. But I realized that I would need some clean items the next day, while I was being measured for slacks, shirts, and suits, at King Philip Tailors in the Quad.

Philippine cotton is very nice. I first bought briefs. Then wife-beaters. Then some tee-shirts. Then, without noticing, I veered towards the display case with women's panties.
Oooooooh, THAT looks nice! So does that one! And those! Oooooh!

Please remember, I had been awake for nearly forty hours. It may have affected my judgment.
I had NO intention of wearing the panties. But they were VERY lovely, and at the time I may have considered them a nice souvenir for everyone back in the Bay Area.

'Here's one for you, and one for you, and one for you! And this lovely one ...... is for you!!!'

I was thinking of keeping some for myself. There were plenty of them.

I knew hardly any women at that time. Probably a good thing, as I now realize that gifting panties to one's friends and colleagues might be considered odd. Possibly eccentric. By the women, if not by the men.

We men love panties.

In addition to the panties neatly folded in plastic among my regular luggage, I had supplies of panties stashed in three different places in Manila. Carefully folded, in tissue, in gaily striped carrybags.
For quite a while I dragged a very full box of spotlessly clean and crisp, never been worn but oh so soft and femmy panties, all over the Philippines. Took it back to the airport with me on the way home. Checked it in.
Then forgot to pick it up from the luggage carousel at San Francisco Airport.
I had plenty of panties, so I didn't even think about it till two weeks later.
You don't remember such things untill you NEED them.

[What's that under the seat? Why, it's a huge woven carrybag - and it too got panties!
Samples, I tell you, these are just 'samples'. Heh.]

I decided not to pursue the matter - asking around the airport for a missing crate of feminine undergoodies might have proven a little embarrassing.

Somewhere a very petite little missy, probably a Philippina, is still wearing MY underwear.
It must feel good.

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:

All correspondence will be kept in confidence.

Thursday, September 17, 2009


If it's chocolate, the correct brand name yields a chezkas kashrus - a presumption of trustworthiness and edibility. You know what brands you like already, and you trust them, even without looking at the fine print. You refuse to eat the muck from that OTHER company, feh, they don't know what they're doing! You wouldn't be caught DEAD eating their drecky treif! That other company produces spiritual pork, karmic shellfish - probably FILLED with shrotzim, too - but the brand you like is good stuff. You trust them completely

I say this, because I tried finding a hechsher on the bar I just ate (second one today), and where it should have a triangle K, or an UO, or a circle-bar-slash-backspace-obscure glyph, it instead says "sugar, cocoa butter, milk, chocolate, butter, brown sugar, baking soda, salt, soy lecithin (an emulsifier) vanillin (an artificial flavor). May contain traces of tree nuts and peanuts."

No hechsher. Kosher only by faith alone, not by supervision. I never noticed that.

Who cares?

I wasn't planning to eat it during peysach anyhow.

Third bar - Dark Chocolate with Almonds. Starting to feel a little queased at this point. Just a nibble, but somehow the entire bar disappeared.

I still have three whole bars left. Classic Milk Chocolate, Milk Chocolate with Almonds, and Milk Chocolate with Toffee Nuggets.

I bought them because a coworker's tyke needs to sell them for his school.

She only works halfdays, and I've only got two bars left. I must buy more tomorrow.

I never noticed before, that wrapping actually looks kinda classy. Did they always have that? Rich vibrant colours, and gold lettering?

Good thing there's a protective layer of foil - the fancy printing on the outer wrapper smells slightly industrial, because of the glossy stock and coloured printing ink.

What the heck is lecithin? The article says it's a yellowish brown fatty substance composed of fatty acids, glycolipids, triglycerides, phospholipids, and other stuff. Not very soluble in water (because of all those lipids).
It is used as an emulsifier, and can be entirely metabolized.

I wonder if the fact that it is yellowish brown and waxy makes it suitable for inclusion in chocolate bars? It wouldn't affect the appearance, would it? Except to make it more glossy.

I'll research that in detail tomorrow. I've got to make this bar last till then.

Gotta get some coffee. My stomach is bubbling.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009


Yesterday's post seems to have struck a nerve. Perhaps it was the subject (a delicate young fellow from the hinterlands of New York City, painfully exposed to the manners of a grown-up metropolis while living in San Francisco), but more than likely, it was several colourful mental images conjured up by the descriptions.

Magic words such as 'mouth polyps', 'anatomy', 'dog', and 'juicy'.
As well as 'guts', 'underwear', and 'garbage can'.

Apparently some of my tender readers are also delicate souls from more innocent places. Such as New York.

An anonymous commenter wrote:
"I am now heaving into my garbage can. At work."

Oh dear.

I do not know what, precisely, caused him (or her) to become ill. Normally heaving into a garbage can at work testifies to bad eating habits. Perhaps food poisoning.
I suspect that Micky's or Bü-King had more to do with the heave-ho than my modest offering, no matter how indigestible it may have been. This blog is not food.
But I am sorry, I apologize. I shall henceforth try to avoid such dangerous terms as 'mouth polyps', 'anatomy', 'dog', 'juicy', 'guts', and 'garbage can'.

The word underwear, of course, is unavoidable. It is in more ways than one a daily subject.
I prefer not to discard underwear, or ignore it. Ever. Some underwear is in fact worthy of obsession, especially if nicely ruffled, with a bit of lace, tight, and of a pleasing fruity hue.
Such as I might be wearing right now. Maybe.

As a peace offering, and to provide you with at least some entertainment, I would ask you to click on this link:

It will lead you to a classic post by another blogger, one which you are sure to enjoy.
I hope this makes everything all right between us again.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009


The poor dear. He never saw it coming. Since then, whenever anyone reminds him of it, he turns green and likely to faint.

A few years ago there used to be a homeless person living near the office. Several colleagues had over time helped her out or done favours for her and consequently she remembered them. She knew their names and where they worked, and would come up to the third floor and demand that they be produced forthwith, as their input was required again.

Her raspy voice would sound forth: "Tell Scott I want to see him!". Or, "Where's Jimmie? Tell him to come out now!". And even "You tell Bertie that I need five dollars - I'll wait here!"

The receptionist would patiently go through the pretense of calling Scott, Jimmie, and Bertie, then regretfully inform Angelica that the person in question did not appear to be available, maybe they weren't coming in that day.

After Angelica finally left, the receptionist would go around and tell people that they could stop crouching.


One person in my department hid under his desk whenever he heard Angelica's voice.
He had once given her a dollar, and she remembered him. She was hard to refuse - she would lean in and breathe at you, and in the process show you her mouth-polyps or accidentally brush against you with part of her anatomy till you co-operated.

One day my colleague and I were outside smoking, when Angelica came by. She had an appointment at some agency, and needed us to flag down a cab for her and watch her dog for a few hours.
Not being particularly stupid, I promptly went back inside, leaving him to deal with the situation. He came in forty five minutes later, having found Angelica a cab and bribed the man into also taking the dog.
Besides paying the cab fare in advance.

For the next six months, he was the first person that Angelica would demand to see whenever she came up to the third floor. She would call his name, not believing that he wasn't there - she hollered that she had seen him come in!

Angelica hated my guts, 'cause I told her once that I had no interest in flagging down a cab for her, really, she should've gotten off her duff earlier if she had an appointment. And I don't even like that dog - good day to you.


She had the worst impact on Richard, however. Richard was an innocent college boy from New York who had come out to California only a few weeks before getting hired.
He loved San Francisco, it was so diverse!

One morning he was crossing Pine Street, when Angelica and another street person were having a discussion. The other person insisted that Angelica was not female, but just some stunted football player. Hah! Fake! Ugly homo!
Angelica at that pointed yanked her dress up to her chin and yelled "I'm all woman, baby, look at it! Juicy!".

She was not wearing underwear.

Richard didn't tell me this. His friend Ken told the tale when we were out drinking, despite Richard's pleas to not talk about it. Richard turned green at that point and heaved into the garbage can.
For over a year afterward, hearing Angelica's voice would make him ill.

"I'm all woman, baby, look at it! Juicy!"

Eventually he moved back to New York - I guess SF is just too diverse.

New York, no doubt, is a far nicer place. So calm, so peaceful.
So civilized.

To a limited extent, I can sympathize.
I too have seen the worst of Angelica.
One weekend I went downtown to do some work at the office. Passing a doorway on Battery Street, I heard a strange flappy sound behind shopping carts and the cardboard wall that had been put up. So I looked over.

Angelica was sitting in the entrance, with her legs spread, mother naked and grinning, happily slapping her long breasts from side to side.

Monday, September 14, 2009


There are times when I suddenly realize that I am a crusty old codger. One of those moments happened today while I was reading Dovbear's blog, and happily writing comments.

This post:
And this comment string:

I took issue with the ire of one of the commenters.

Cite: Cite: Cite: Cite: Cite: Cite: Cite: Cite:

Wonder how many blue shirts the boss-guy will go through now until he finds one who can do the job as well now?

Probably just one. Everyone is replaceable.

I personally would not stay working for an employer who tried to tell me how to dress. I'd probably also start having exhibiting a really bad attitude unti I could get out. I know I would.

That's okay then. I can find plenty of good honest hard workers who do not have body piercings and ripped motorhead tee-shirts.

I may even be RUDE on account of it.

Egregious behaviour is as good a reason to fire you as any.

been fired so many times before, as the song goes, I WILL SURVIVE

After looking over your resumé, you will not be getting an interview. We're not running a Starbucks here. Sorry.
Bad Penguin! Bad Penguin!
09.14.09 - 1:51 pm


I can find plenty of plenty of . . . workers who do not have body piercings

You can in SF?!

and ripped motorhead tee-shirts

A ripped Motorhead T-Shirt is just wrong. At over 35 years running, they are now an institution. Those wearing Motorhead garments should show some respect.
And Don't Forget the Joker!
09.14.09 - 2:02 pm


I can find plenty of plenty of . . . workers who do not have body piercings
You can in SF?!

Thirty percent of the population of SF is of Asian origin. Far less likely to be such extreme "individualists" as the white population. And far less likely to be so full of themselves either.

More likely to work, too. I honestly cannot understand how many of the WASP 20-somethings in this burg stay in money. Maybe they're just burning through their trust funds?

And then, of course, there's the Hispanic element. Without Mexicans, there would be hardly any Italian restaurants in SF, or Nouvelle Cuisine eateries, or 'fusion-cuisine' bistros, or 'California Cuisine', artsy fartsy Tapas joints, barbecue pits, sushi restaurants, Indian and Pakistani eateries catering to middle-class Anglos, Pizza places......

Man does not live by Thai and Chinese food alone.


To put it differently, if it weren't for the Mexicans and Asians in SF, all those pierced tattooed hip white people would have to go back to the Midwest. And I guess that would be so sad, so very sad. Apparently there are no Starbucks or tattoo-parlors in the corn belt. And that is just so very, very, very SAD!
Bad Penguin! Bad Penguin!
09.14.09 - 5:08 pm


PS. As you can probably tell, my piles bleed for WASP 20-somethings.
I feel for the little f*ckers.

Really I do.

Ach & vei.
Bad Penguin! Bad Penguin!
09.14.09 - 5:09 pm


I am Bad Penguin. And I am an antique.

Motörhead tee-shirts are SO nineteen eighties. Cripes. They were the first things we bought after Noah moored the ark. Forty days of no laundry service, partying like a bunch of animals, and just Mediterranean food - you try smelling clean and fresh.



Please note that the commenter identified as 'And Don't Forget the Joker!' was NOT the ired commenter to whom I reacted, but rather a commenter who responded to my contra-ire.
He (or She) rightly alerted me to the timeless and classic quality of Motörhead - whose teeshirts do not reflect the current era's eccentric clothing tastes at all.
I have no idea what teeshirts would be more appropriate for that purpose - perhaps something with a design by Keith Haring?

Friday, September 11, 2009


Is peace with Syria likely or even possible?
A better question would be whether Syria is a worthwhile peace partner.

The answer to either question is 'no'.

Peace with Syria is not likely, nor is Syria a worthwhile peace partner.

Over the past forty years, Syria has backed several groups which have killed Americans and Israelis. Presently, Hamas is the darling of Damascus, though Hezbollah has also benefited immensely from the favours of the Alawite dictatorship.
Both groups have shown a complete disregard for civilian lives - Arabs, Israelis, and Americans have all been slaughtered opportunistically by both Hezbollah and Hamas.

Hamas, as the Palestinian branch of the Muslim brotherhood, was an unlikely candidate for the position of 'most favoured terrorist gang', given that Assad père slaughtered tens of thousands of Muslim Brotherhood members and civilians in the city of Hama to quell the Syrian branch of the Ikhwan al-Muslimin, and his son Bashar Al Assad has shown as little love for Islamic revolutionaries as his father.

[The Hama massacre (Arabic: مجزرة حماة) occurred on February 2, 1982, when the Syrian military bombarded the town of Hama in order to quell a revolt by the fundamentalist Muslim Brotherhood. An estimated 7,000 to 40,000 people were killed, including about 1,000 soldiers.
Source: .
Hafez Assad's brother Rifaat Assad boasted of having killed 38,000 people, and there are estimates that over fifty thousand perished. This does not include several thousand Islamists executed by the Syrian regime before or since, in addition to other dissenters.]


But, for both father and son Assad, Syria's rightful role is as a regional power, and they have shown an appetite for "Islamic" brutality outside their borders in their aim to make Syrian influence count. Hezbollah, of course, would not have stood a chance against the other factions in Lebanon were it not for Damascus, and Hezbollah in turn assisted the Alawites in crushing the aspirations of Sunni Muslims in both it's own bailiwick as well as parts of Mediterranean Syria, in addition to terrorist acts in other countries. They have proven themselves useful and loyal thugs while providing the Syrian regime with plausible deniability.


So also Hamas. For Arab regimes, the main plus-point of Hamas is that it is not the PLO, not Fatah. While little positive can actually be said about Arafat, all agree that whatever corruption existed in his network during his life, it existed only by toleration, NOT by the express design of outsiders seeking to harness so potent a terror organization for their own ends.
If Fatah did on occasion commit crimes on behalf of the Arab regimes, it did so on its own terms, and strictly for concrete benefits in return.

Hamas, on the other hand, represents an organization whose associates in places like Cairo, Damascus, Amman, and Baghdad, gratefully remember any assistance given. Consequently aid to Hamas in Gaza is repaid by Muslim Brotherhood quiescence (and even co-operation) elsewhere.

Since the mid-1990s, Hamas has been headquartered in Damascus, and operational funds have been transferred by Syria to operatives in Israel. Weapons and materiel have been smuggled by Syrian agents to Hamas via Syria and Syrian-Lebanon, as well as at times through Jordan and other Arab countries.

In return for Syrian patronage, Islamic radicals in Israel and elsewhere have softened their tone towards the Assad regime, no longer delivering denunciations and pronunciamentoes as they had during the eighties and nineties. Where previously the Islamic Brotherhood had refrained from violent actions against Israel in favour of internal struggle, now its attention is equally divided between fomenting unrest in Arab societies that are not on board with its aims, and organizing terrorism against Israel and the Western World in Gaza and the West Bank.

[There are Hamas organizers and Muslim Brotherhood cells in Europe and America. Sofar they have not made their presence much known. What their impact will eventually be can as yet not be estimated.]


In the eighties the Muslim Brotherhood in Gaza (through its front the Islamic Center - Al Mujamaa al Islami) administered a large number of nominally benevolent institutions, such as schools, clinics, and food-distribution centers. After the outbreak of the intifada in 1987, Sheikh Yassin and other Muslim Brotherhood leaders decided to create a second organization that would spearhead violent action, founding the Harakat Al Muqawamah Al Islamiyya (since more commonly referred to as Hamas) in 1988.
Due to Israeli counteractions, by the early nineties most of the leadership was in custody, in hiding, or in exile.

Oslo in 1993 put Hamas at odds with most of the Palestinian political leadership, and made them the only significant group still solely devoted to terrorism for most of the nineties, during which period they received funds and supplies from Iran and Jordan.

[King Hussein and the Muslim Brotherhood in Jordan had a longstanding modus vivendi, whereby in return for support to Islamic causes, the MB would advance Hussein's influence in the West Bank and Gaza. Though Hamas activists were barred from certain activities in the Hashemite kingdom, they had a great deal of operational freedom.]

The situation changed in 1994 when Jordan signed a treaty with Israel. In mid 1995, Jordanian authorities acted against Hamas, and several leaders fled to Damascus. By 1996 it was evident that the military wing of Hamas in Damascus was preparing actions against both Israel and Jordan, and that Syrian officials were providing support to the organization. Under international pressure, Damascus imposed gag-orders on Hamas claims of responsibility for attacks and arrested several activists, then quietly released them. In the meantime, Hamas cadres had full operational freedom in Syrian-Lebanon, and with Syrian and Iranian encouragement recruited thousands of new members in the Palestinian camps.

By 1999, the remaining public figures of Hamas had established themselves in Damascus or Beirut, and the separation between the Jordanian Islamists and Hamas was complete. Since 2000 it has been clear that cells in the West Bank and Gaza take orders from Damascus.

When the Al Aqsa Intifada broke out in September 2000, Hamas (and Syria) were perfectly positioned to diminish the influence of moderates in the PLO by taking the lead in violence, and aggressively recruiting new members. As a result, many of the deadliest attacks can be ascribed to Hamas (and its paymaster Syria).

Internationally and internally, Syria wholeheartedly supported the wave of terrorism, defending the murder of Israeli civilians, praising attacks, and pressuring clerics to justify terrorism with fatwas, in addition to smuggling explosives and weapons to Hamas via Lebanon and Jordan.


All of this has contributed greatly to peace within Syria, with only Sunni extremists from Iraq spoiling the calm by the occasional act of insane violence. The Islamic Brotherhood in Syria, in so far as it does not represent the Palestinian Terrorists, is virtually extinct - in any case, incapable of action, and largely irrelevant. Syria and Iran both benefit, albeit in different ways, from their alliances with well-organized terror groups (Hezbollah and Hamas) and each other, and have at this point no reason to even consider destroying such fertile relationships.

Perhaps most crucially, the American intervention in Iraq removed a source of competition to the Syrians, both as regards the legitimacy of Baathist Socialism within the Arab nationalist camp, and as far as destabilizing influence in neighboring countries is concerned. Since the fall of Saddam, co-operation between Iran and Syria has thrived as never before. There is no strong Sunni voice in the Levant to counter Shia and Alawite political aspirations, no Arab country that realistically competes for influence in Syria's backyard. By removing Saddam Hussein and his clique, American actions have strengthened both Iran and Syria, and in retrospect it seems that American influence itself has faded everywhere in the region.


Without repercussion and extreme disadvantage to the Syrians on their own soil, it is utterly unlikely that Syria will break its bonds with Hamas and Hezbollah. And unless that happens, there is little point in considering Syria a potential peace-partner, nor is there much benefit in any discussions with Damascus.

The article above has been cross-posted at Pro-Israel Bay Bloggers.
Feedback welcomed.


There are times when everything just comes together. Critical mass is attained, the fissile material goes boom, and a rain of radioactive dust gently falls like snow.

This blog particularly likes those days. Everything seems so golden.

The traffic outside the office building is sheerly wonderful too. Automobiles move barely a foot in several minutes. Long lines of vehicles slowly pass by, at so somnolent a pace that one can dance gaily among the cars, making it clear to frustrated drivers that, as a pedestrian, one is blessed.

I am faster than you. You are stuck in traffic. My life is better than yours. You are suffering because of your addiction to oil. Poor poor you.

Don't thank me, I like to share.

--- --- ---

And in that vein, also coming together nicely......


Grant Patel is infuriated that Snooky Wong ignored him. Consequently he has more fun with Richard Becker's penis than any man is supposed to have.

Death by Noodles is a horrid mistress!

"You wished proof of my valid claim that Richard Becker is blessed with a matchbox-sized lora, or even smaller, as befits a notorious communist from a comfortable armchair, who is desiring to entirely without danger to himself or evidences leading back to him, or the beneficiaries of his mini-me, instigate, stir-up, and outside-agitate for violent revolution and the bloody extinguishment of Jews and other fine peoples. As is utterly the balanced and considered opinion of myself, a discriminating and perspicacious lawyer."

Please note that whenever Grant is peevish, he mentions the idea that Richard Becker, who is the head of International ANSWER here on the West Coast, has a miniscule masculinity. When Grant is full of himself, he also raises Mr. Richard Becker's miniature endowment. Heck, in whatever mood he is in, Grant Patel is obsessed by Richard Becker and his microscopic wee willikin.


What set Grant off on his latest, was Snooky happily mentioning her recent posts on Pro-Israel Bay Bloggers (PIBB) in this post:

Gaily waving my panties!

"... please imagine that tight little bikini briefs with a print pattern of red red strawberries are being waved in your direction. Hey guys, over here! "

No, she's not being lascivious, no matter what impression that quote may give, nor whatever Grant Patel might wish. It all fits very nicely, the strawberry panties have a place - they belong where they are.


After reading Grant and Snooky, I segued into another local blog. And discovered to my delighted surprise that Steffy also seems in the ballpark of naughty naughty naughty!


[Watching the movie: Following which she starts reading the book: About half way through Lolita:
I suspect that there may be another post about the book sometime soon. ]

I am thrilled to bits that a thirteen-year old is reading Nabokov. Perhaps it isn't healthy, but I shan't say anything. I started reading Nabokov when I was thirteen, and knew all about the nictitating grasses by the time I was fifteen.
Vladimir Nabokov is food for developing minds, nourishment for the soul.
Just avoid the depressing second half of Ada - it isn't nearly so sprightly and joyous as the first half, in which Van and Ada first mutually frustrate, then obsessively conjugate.

Thursday, September 10, 2009


There are reports that prime-minister Netanyahu made a quick trip to Moscow earlier this week.

This has been strenuously denied by both governments, but a Kremlin official confirmed it recently to the Russian newspaper Komersant, which discussed the matter with various experts who cited extraordinary circumstances and speculated about possible Israeli actions vis-à-vis Iran.

Kommersant quoted an "informed Israeli source', who stated that Israel is ready to take decisive action, and that Netanyahu wished to notify the Kremlin of this matter.

What may have bearing on this is the American conclusion that Iran has enough material to manufacture a nuclear device. As mentioned in the New York times.

"American intelligence agencies have concluded in recent months that Iran has created enough nuclear fuel to make a rapid, if risky, sprint for a nuclear weapon."


The Jokers in the deck, as regards estimates of Iran's capabilities, are number one that a truly accurate assessment is well-nigh impossible, and number two that information on co-operation between Iran and other rogue states or entities is also hidden.
Iran is adept at presenting conflicting masks and policies.

Complicating factors are that much intelligence comes from partial or involved sources, and that there are other players on both sides than just Iran, Israel, and the United States - Syria, for one, which is operating nuclear sites not open to international inspection, and which has co-operative agreements with Iran.

What Iran acquired in the past ten plus years from Russia and other sources is a further matter of concern.

Russian and Chinese objections to renewed sanctions, and European hesitancy, may very soon leave no other option open than the military one.

From Rosh Hashana till Shemini Atzeres will be 'tense' this year.


Bear in mind that much of this is based on vague reports and unnamed sources. It may consequently reflect little more than speculation, rather than any forward looking statements. Nevertheless, this blogger would not be surprised if a new juncture has been reached, and events accelerate within the next fortnight.

Wednesday, September 09, 2009


Savage Kitten and I often sleep in the same bed. Does this surprise you?

I didn't think so. Sharing the same bed is fairly normal for many couples. Despite the several decades of anti-bed-sharing propaganda by the movie industry.
[Remember all those black and white films? Remember the two beds with a night stand in between? How about 1950s television shows?]

Except that according to medical experts, it isn't normal.

Bed sharing 'bad for your health'


"Dr Robert Meadows, a sociologist at the University of Surrey, said: "People actually feel that they sleep better when they are with a partner but the evidence suggests otherwise."
He carried out a study to compare how well couples slept when they shared a bed versus sleeping separately.
Based on 40 couples, he found that when couples share a bed and one of them moves in his or her sleep, there is a 50% chance that their slumbering partner will be disturbed as a result."


I don't know how to break this to Savage Kitten.
Some of the more rambunctious roomies will have to go.

The one-legged monkey who steals my underpants? Off to the other side.
The sock-sheep, who sneakily pokes me with a stick while I'm unconscious? Join the monkey in the other room, please.
The small slutty French bovine person? Go rub your sticky udders up against one of the other creatures somewhere else.
The Froad, the Kitten, the three-inch dinosaur, and the neo-Nazi Raccoon (he keeps saying crap like 'sieg heil', and 'bomb you, Dutchie')? Off off off!

On the other hand, the hand-puppet spider and the sweet little she-sheep with pink bows can stay.
I actually feel that I sleep better when they are over here, and there is no evidence to even suggest otherwise.

Same goes for Savage Kitten. Especially when she brings Ms. Bruin over. The influence of the senior roomie is most beneficial to a good night's rest. No one dares riot in the middle of the night if she is nearby.
Teddy bears can be fierce when disturbed.

Tuesday, September 08, 2009


And yes, you can thank the Algemeen Dagblad for that judgment - that being the refreshing Netherlandish feuilleton that I peruse during lunch.

Today it had more sex than usual.

Man, those cheeseballs are perverts!


A selection of articles in today's Algemeen Dagblad that present a broad spectrum of Dutch sexcapades.

Playmate daagt Fatima uit voor pokerduel
Het Nederlandse fetishmodel Ancilla Tilia daagt de kersverse pokerbabe Fatima Moreira de Melo uit voor een waar pokerduel.

[Dutch Fetish model challenges Fatima to a .... wait, what's that? A fetish model?!?! A fetish model named 'Ancilla' (Latin for 'slave girl')?!?!?! Nuff said.]

Acht jaar opgesloten en verkracht
AMSTERDAM - De man met wie ze ging trouwen, keek ze voor het eerst in de ogen enkele momenten voor de huwelijksvoltrekking. Volgens Berberse tradities zou pas tijdens het huwelijk de witte doek die over haar hoofd was gedrapeerd worden weggehaald.

[Berber bride locked up and raped for eight years in Amsterdam. Which is not unusual. She writes a book about her experiences. Which IS unusual. Her ex-husband has been allowed to import another teenage bride, who is probably going to wish that the Dutch were not so tolerant. Which is not unusual.]

Buurt baalt van herrieseks
PAPENDRECHT - Bewoners van de Talingstraat in Papendrecht zoeken een oplossing voor een stel luidruchtig seksende buren.

[Couple moves into neighborhood, has screamingly loud fights in public, then screamingly loud make-up sex. The entire street gets to listen. Neighborhood objects, as some children can also hear the ecstatic screaming. Whoopee.]

Schok groot na verkrachting
BILTHOVEN - De schok op Het Nieuwe Lyceum in Bilthoven is groot. ,,Toen ik het vrijdagmiddag hoorde, kreeg ik er kippenvel van,'' zegt rector Ruud van Tergouw van Het Nieuwe Lyceum. Gisteren zijn de klasgenoten van het 15-jarige meisje dat vrijdagmiddag slachtoffer werd van een verkrachter op de hoogte gesteld.

[Fifteen year old girl raped while bycicling home from school.]

Bear in mind, this is merely a lighthearted look at sex, from a newspaper which caters to the lowest common denominator. If they really wanted to delve into the issues, they would focus on the red-light districts in Rotterdam, Amsterdam, and other Dutch cities, where Eastern European and Third World women are kept in sexual bondage, after having been smuggled in and raped by people-traffickers.

But, given that the sexual brutalization of foreigners who should be grateful to be allowed into the country takes some of the performance pressure off of native Netherlandish women, AND that it gives the violence-prone and sex-fiend element among the Dutch an outlet for their bestial urges, those red-light districts with their miserable conditions are a probably considered a very good thing.
The tolerant liberated Dutch would certainly not wish their fun to be diminished.


Some of my Dutch readers might now be outraged, and protest that I am making a mountain out of a molehill, unfairly stigmatizing them and their wonderful country.

I do not think that I am being unfair.

"In Amsterdam, Netherlands, 80% of prostitutes are foreigners, and 70% have no immigration papers, suggesting that they were trafficked. (Marie-Victoire Louis, "Legalizing Pimping, Dutch Style," Le Monde Diplomatique, 8 March 1997)"


2nd. Quote:
"The Netherlands is one the most popular destinations in Europe of women trafficked from Ukraine and Russia. (Vladmir Isachenkov, "Soviet Women Slavery Flourishes," Associated Press, 6 November 1997)."

3rd. Quote:
"The Netherlands government, in response to increasing trafficking in women, amended its criminal law in 1991. The maximum sentence for trafficking was raised from 5 to 6 years, and to 10 years for the trafficking of children under 16 and/or accompanied by serious physical violence. (Marie-Victoire Louis, "Legalizing Pimping, Dutch Style," Le Monde Diplomatique, 8 March 1997)"


The maximum sentence of six years seems rather low for ruining a life, don't you think? And that would be six years in a Dutch prison - the prisons in the Netherlands are quite comfortable and have excellent recreational and health facilities, from what I've heard. And very likely the trafficker would be incarcerated for less than the full term, as many convicts are released early.

Further, from a paper alluringly entitled 'SEX TRAFFICKING IN THE AMERICAS', this:
"Among the destination countries, Spain is by far the most common destination country for Brazilian women. It is followed by the Netherlands, Venezuela, Italy, Portugal, Paraguay, Switzerland, the USA, Germany, Suriname, Israel, Hong Kong, Bolivia, Japan, French Guiana, Peru, and Taiwan.

Unlike domestic trafficking, where adolescents were among the most frequently trafficked, international routes are primarily allocated to trafficking women. However, once again in evaluating this phenomena, these statistics must be considered in light of the tendency when trafficking older adolescents to identify them as being 18 years old or older."


How interesting that the number two destination is listed as the Netherlands!

While it may seem unfair to stigmatize an entire nation based on the mercantile excellence of their criminal element, and the apathy OR planned ineffectiveness of their law-enforcement agencies as regards an international problem, it does seem to this writer that when it comes to matters sexual, Dutch society is ...... dysfunctional.

Thursday, September 03, 2009


Over on Dovbear's blog there's post about Sarah Palin, and the baby-daddy of her daughter's baby. Yes, I never thought I'd be using a baby-talk-term like 'baby-daddy', but the Palin era forced me to. In addition to such terms as 'baby-daddy's-mommy', 'trailer-park methamphetamine entrepreneur', 'hunting shooting fishing moron', 'tacky bitch', and 'great white North'.
Truly, we live in wondrous times.

I mention all of this to draw your attention to a thoroughly nasty comment.

The phrase "white trash" is the sort of ethnic slur one should not repeat, much less use about anyone else. ---- "white trash" is out, PC-wise, as it implies that only some whites are trashy (and by contrast, that trashy is the default for all non-whites).

Respectfully, I disagree. Here in SF we use the term 'white trash' to describe the entire rest of the country up to the New York border. Though sometimes we admit that not all of them folks actually are whitey white - we excuse their odd behaviour as somehow being based on a valid subculture rather than trailer trash upbringing and lead-poisoning from eating roadkill.

White trash: Marketing departments, suburbanites, inbred Jed, most of Texas, anybody named Bush, the politicians and voters between the Oakland Hills and the Catskills, all of Utah, and one out of every two people in Western Europe, three out of four in Eastern Europe.

It's a dialect issue. The word 'white trash' may not mean the same where y'all are from. Just accept that you're wrong. You've clearly been influenced by the speech-habits of Trailerparkistan.


Such a disturbing amount of hatred, tssk tssk. I am shocked at the level of sinas chinom. Where's the love?
Were it not obvious that the writer was one of us, I would expect him or her to be a Republican.


You've probably already figured out that I have little regard for our European cousins, eh? And if you've been following the news all these years, you are not particularly surprised.

Still. There are times when you should be. Not at my dislike for those cannibalistic savages, but at my extreme toleration of them.
After all, I will admit that I am related to them, and that they are, at times, arguably human.

I am NOT related to ANY of the people in the following news items.

Seks op straat in vol stadscentrum
[Street sex in crowded city centre]

BARCELONA - De Spaanse krant El Pais brengt een opmerkelijk verhaal over een seksschandaal in Barcelona. In volle stadscentrum, aan de wereldberoemde markt La Boqueria, gaan de sekstoeristen wel heel ver.


Aan La Boqueria gaan sekstoeristen op straat ongegeneerd hun gang.
Ze hebben er ongegeneerd seks met prosituees, gewoon op straat alsof het niets is. De Spaanse krant illustreert het seksschandaal met foto's die weinig aan de verbeelding overlaten.
Die foto's werden gemaakt door buurtbewoners die de nachtelijke overlast kotsbeu zijn. De sekstoeristen profiteren van de erg goedkope en vaak drugsverslaafde Afrikaanse hoertjes voor een snelle wip in het openbaar.

[EXPLANATION: Frequent sexual acts with whores in public, in a famous part of Barcelona. It's become a problem for people in the neighborhood, but nobody else really gives a hoot. Small African crack-whores, business as usual. ]

Tweetal vermoordt moeder met hamer
[Duo kill mom with hammer]

HASSELT - De 15-jarige Joy V. en haar 17-jarige vriend Dimitri lieten vandaag aan rechercheurs van de politie Hasselt zien hoe ze op 9 juli Joys moeder, 35-jarige Gwenn, vermoordden in haar appartement.


Het tweetal bracht de vrouw met hamerslagen om het leven terwijl haar kinderen, een zevenjarige tweeling, in dezelfde woning lag te slapen.

[EXPLANATION: Teenage girl and her 17 year old lover show cops how they beat her mother to death with a hammer while her siblings were sleeping.]

Broers (10 en 12) bekennen marteling
[Brothers (10 and 12 yrs old) admit torture]

GROOT BRITANNIË - In het Britse Sheffield hebben twee broers, van tien en twaalf jaar oud, voor de rechter toegegeven dat zij twee andere jongens, van negen en elf, op gruwelijke wijze hebben mishandeld.


Pas nadat de beide jongens tot hun bekentenis overgingen, werd duidelijk hoe gruwelijk de marteling was geweest. De jonge slachtoffertjes werden met een smoes naar een afgelegen plek gelokt. Daar werden zij beroofd van hun mobiele telefoons en van ongeveer vijf Engelse ponden aan zakgeld. Daarna sloegen de beide broest hen met stokken en bekogelden hen met stenen.
Het bleef echter niet bij slaan en gooien. Terwijl de jeugdige daders een biertje dronken, dwongen zij de afgeranselde jongens seksuele handelingen bij elkaar te verrichten en vervolgens in elkaars mond te plassen.
De elfjarige jongens werd daarna een strop om de nek gebonden. Waarna het duo vertelde hem te zullen ophangen. De arme jongen was er zo erg aan toe, dat hij hen zelfs smeekte te mogen sterven.
Maar ook het negenjarige ventje kreeg ervan langs. De boosaardige broers staken hem met een puntige stok in de arm en drukten sigarettenpeuken in de open wonden en oogleden van het kereltje.
Na hun martelingen dwongen zij het jongetje de plek te verlaten en ergens ,,zelfmoord te gaan plegen''. Hij werd uiteindelijk door buurtbewoners onder het bloed teruggevonden.
Even later werd ook de elfjarige bewusteloos aangetroffen. Beide kinderen werden met ernstige wonden naar het ziekenhuis gebracht.
De brute broers waren overigens geen onbekenden van de politie. Op het ogenblik dat ze de jongens aan het martelen waren, moesten ze eigenlijk op het politiebureau zijn voor eerdere misdaden. De rechter doet binnenkort uitspraak.

[EXPLANATION: Two brothers (one ten, one twelve years old) in Sheffield, England, first robbed two other children, then tortured them savagely and forced them to perform sexual acts upon each other, followed by scatological nastiness. The two seriously injured victims were eventually found by neighborhood residents, and have been hospitalized. The two perpetrators were supposed to be at the police station in connection with previous misbehaviour at the time that they were enjoying their theft - torture - sex - scatology orgy.]


These articles were all in today's Algemeen Dagblad. This is just ONE day's worth, from just ONE newspaper.
There's a different selection every day, a veritable smorgasbord of delights.

Reading European languages is such a blessing.

For the past several years, I have been titillated during my lunch hour by articles that detailed such things as drunken riots during which the cops were called Jews, teenage sex-orgies in school cafeterias, coma drinking, animal torture, Dutch and Scandinavian bordellos with a selection of trembling farm animals, drunken brawls involving whips and chains, an Austrian man who kept his daughter captive for several years in a sex-dungeon so that he could rape her, a German sex-cannibal, besides the perfectly normal examples of torture, murder, beheading, gypsy-bashing, gang-rape, child-molestation, and Euro-Muslim youths brutalizing teenage girls into prostitution.

At this point I would venture that we Americans did NOT come here for religious freedom, nor for opportunity.
We came here to get the hell away from 'those folks'.
It probably explains why we have a Puritan streak.
And why we are not quite as tolerant as those enlightened Europeans.

Wednesday, September 02, 2009


And I mean that. But not in the pervy sense of the song.
There are three charming Chinese girls for whom I will gladly do favours - one of them I'm actually living with, the other two are fellow bloggers whom I do not expect to ever meet in person.
All three are in San Francisco.

Stephanie 周
Seems to write mostly about smells. Which is a welcome relief, because many teenage girls write about clothes and angst. Angst is not worth reading about, and its corollary, teenage despair, is frankly boring. Clothes, meh. Smells, on the other hand. Especially if food related. Her latest post is about dry ingredients, a previous post was about mooncakes. It's all happy blogging.
She's a member of PIBB

Snooky B. Wong
This one is hard to characterize. Her blog has mentioned motorbikes, food, Richard Becker's very small penis, a stuffed frog, and various other things. She had a major war with Grant Patel over Richard Becker's tiny penis - Grant insisted that it was miniscule, and that that datum was a matter of public record; Snooky demanded to know precisely how mister Patel knew this, and that he forward incontrovertible proof establishing the dimensions.
I do not think she had any real interest in Richard Becker's penis. She was simply goading Grant Patel, as he richly deserved.
She has listed grant Patel on her blogroll as 'THE PERVERT!'
This blog is feisty.
She's also a member of PIBB

Now, there is ONE other Chinese-American girl I should mention. No, not Savage Kitten (subject of many posts in her own right), but Miss 徐珺兒 (Choi Gwan-yee).

Whom I actually have met in person.

She's probably about eight or nine years old. Very small, and quite charming.


I was at a restaurant in Chinatown picking up some fish-slice porridge (yi pien jook, 魚片粥). While I was waiting for my food, a little girl wandered over. She had heard me speaking Cantonese, and, as big hairy glow-in-the-dark white devils who speak Cantonese are something of a lusus naturae, her curiosity had naturally been aroused.
I'm a sucker for charming Chinese girls - I may have mentioned that.

Where was I from? Did I work? Where did I live? Did I live with someone?
These are sensible questions, as the answers illuminate the background of the person being interrogated.

How had I learned Cantonese?
An easy answer - I've seen about two thousand or so Cantonese movies, back in the day when the Taai Ming Sing Hey Yuen (great Star Theatre, 大明星戲院), Sai Kai Hey Yuen (World Theatre, 世界戲院), and Kam To Hey Yuen (Golden Capital Theatre, 金都戲院) were all still in business. They're all closed now, unfortunately, but back in the old days you could show up whenever you wanted for the double bill, stay as long as you wanted, sit in the back smoking and eating, or chatting with friends. Very fine in the evening. Now the only time the Taai Ming Sing is opened up is when an opera troupe needs a place to perform.

At this point she drew my attention to a poster for an upcoming opera event at the Taai Ming Sing. She pointed at one of the people on the poster and happily said "that's me". She's in one of the performances, and quite pleased about it. As well she should be. Bravo, little girl, well done.

She really REALLY wants me to come to watch the show.

Alas, I am probably not going to go watch her - I no longer have quite the appetite for crowds that I used to, I'm rather shyer than I was then. But back in the nineties I remember attending performances at the Capital Theatre (Kam To Hey Yuen, 金都戲院), particularly one of the operas from the 'Women Generals of the Yang Family' cycle (楊門女将).


During the Northern Sung period, the Yang clan (楊家, 楊氏), scholar officials and military leaders in service to the emperor, had been sending men to the frontier to repell the barbarians for over a generation. Most of the adult males had perished in battle, leaving only their children and widows holding the clan lands. Rather than admitting failure, the matriarch of the family details her daughters, grand-daughters, and other women of the family to lead the struggle.

[Sung (宋朝), 960 CE - 1279 CE. The Northern Sung (北宋) period was from 960 CE till 1127 CE, at which time the barbarian Chin dynasty (金朝) seized control of Northern China, and the court fled south, re-establishing itself at Lin An (臨安), today's Hanchow ( 杭州). The period from 1127 CE till 1279 CE is commonly called Southern Sung (南宋).]

Mu Gui-Ying (穆桂英), the widow of one of the Yang grandsons, heads towards the passes with an army, and in a heroic battle takes back the frontier gate from the invaders.
I cannot remember the woman playing Mu Gui-Ying, but she was very good indeed. Her rendition of the storming of the gate in defiance of the haughty Turk was so moving that we gave her a standing ovation - she had no choice but to storm three more times. It was a most splendid performance.

I do not know what role Choi Gwan-Yee has, nor did I look to see in which opera she'll be on stage. The shows are being put on by the 譚玉鶯戲曲薈萃 at the Taai Ming Sing on September 12 and 13.

It will probably be great fun. I am sure miss Choi will do well and I hope she enjoys being in the show.
I'll ask her all about it next time I pick up jook in C'town.



Some mention of the Tam Yu-Ang Hey-Kuk Wooi-Seui (Lyric Jade Oriole Opera Airs Association Troupe: 譚玉鶯戲曲薈萃) can be found here:

The poster to which Choi Gwan-Yee pointed is here:

I must keep an eye out for future events - 粵劇 (Yuet Ju: Cantonese Opera) is an entertainment that easily addicts. I have tapes of most operas in which 方艷芬 (Fong Yin-Fan) ever performed, plus recordings of many other stars. Yes, yes, I know - tapes are SO last century. But it will take a while to replace them all.


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