Tuesday, March 31, 2015


Today somebody apologized for missing his pipe class on Sunday, and offered as an excuse that he was whacking balls with a buddy whose sister had passed away a few weeks ago; the man needed distraction.
While it is absolutely charming that he apologized, it really wasn't necessary. After all, I want him to become a pipe-smoker. It's almost a missionary drive on my part -- no, I do not stand on street corners with helpful pamphlets like "pointers for the new pipe stud", or "am I packing it right?", and I do not approach strangers with leading questions like "have you ever thought about Cavendish?" or "ask yourself; how can briar improve your life?" -- and I'm tickled pink that confirmed cigar-degenerates like him are actually considering changing their life-style.

Cigar-smoking IS a life-style, in case you were wondering. It's a choice, not something they were born with.

Sometime between their adolescence and early middle-age, an older man pulled them conspiratorily into a dark alley and ruined their life. Ever since then they've been looking for even bigger thrills, stronger tobaccos.
Their old friends shun them, and say "he's changed".
Or "she". Some cigar smokers are female.

Pipe-smokers, however, usually aren't converted by older and unwiser associates. We're perfectly capable of corrupting ourselves.

We are in charge of our own astray-leading.

Genius is born, not made.

When I was thirteen years old, I bought my first briar. About two months later, by which time I was fourteen, I acquired two tins of pipe-tobacco, as owning an instrument in which to combust, but naught to combust therein, is, when you think about it, rather silly.

When I was fifteen I had made the switch from ghastly aromatic shit to decent un-aromatized smoking mixtures. Soon thereafter I discovered Latakia, which is a wonderful smoky, leathery, woodsy leaf, superlative in proportions from twenty five to fifty percent, often best between 37½ and 43¾%. It was a revelation.

But I didn't actually know how to smoke a pipe properly until I met the manager at Drucquer and Sons in Berkeley, who was a small bespectacled Chinese woman of considerable charm and sharp wit, who told me I was doing it all wrong.

People always make mistakes in the beginning. For four years I had been smoking messily and mistreating my pipes.

Unlike cigars, which are fairly easily mastered, and cigarettes, which quickly prove a bad habit, a pipe does take a bit of advice.
Smoke slow. Dry your tobacco out a bit before loading. Do not pack too tight, you will adjust with a tamper as you go down. Use pipe cleaners during and after. Let the pipe rest between smokes (you will need enough briars that each one can sit for a day after being used).
Avoid aromatics (mixtures with added flavourings, such as peach, cherry, caramel, vanilla, chocolate, etc.), as such tobaccos are slightly worse than venereal disease lesions visible to everyone. The smell will make fastidious people vocalize or vociferate, men of good taste will avoid associating with you, and spazzbrained dingos shall come oozing up to lithp "ooh, that remindth me tho much of my grandfather!"
You don't want to remind people of their grandfather; you want to remind them of that handsome Latin tutor at college. Leastways someone young, charming, and slightly mysterious.

Like, for instance, a very personable Chinese woman.
Who was known for wit and keen intelligence.
Plus sound judgement, and good taste.

My associate who missed his pipe lesson does not ooze.
He's a long way from a being a Chinese woman.
Which is rather a frightful pity.

He needs to unlearn several bad personal habits, such as many (most) cigar-smokers inevitably have. Pipe-smoking is something clean and upstanding, which can build character and inculcate sound judgement in both men and women. Cigars, however, are often a vehicle for moral turpitude, and may lead to depravity or viciousness.
Many cigar-smokers are doubtful people.

Pipe-smokers are extremely nice.
Interesting and clever.


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Monday, March 30, 2015


When I get on the bus to Marin on work days, my mind is often at its clearest, and I enjoy the ride. Except, of course, for tourists at subsequent stops who are trying to get to Marin, or the wharf, or the Mission District. Who are outraged that the fare costs money, no change is given, and existential issues won't be solved during this brief trip.

They take pains to inform the bus driver and his passengers that this is NOT how things are done in Europe or Indiana.

Being a long-time resident of San Francisco, I am not the nicest of persons. Most of us aren't; we live here. Please stop taking photos of our colourful habiliments and objets d'art, and PLEASE use the internet to find out the answers to life's great questions like where the bus to Blitzpah stops BEFORE crowding onto the vehicle in a panic.
We have a schedule to keep.


The best line heard in several days was uttered in connection with visitors from Great Britain, who were a wee bit frowsty. Being detail-oriented about odd things, I tried explaining to another person that because of the climate, a lack of central heating, and antiquated bathing facilities that oozed out the merest modicum of warm water when one wished to take a weekly bath, many people out in the countryside and even the smaller metropoles of Blighty were accustomed to "rough it", meaning that they sometimes overlooked the effect their haphazard hygiene might have on delicate Americans. I went into overmuch detail about rusty tin water heaters geared towards a more primitive time, and the rich robust odours of cow pastures, council flats, and tanneries, plus sewage systems built by the Victorians, who assumed that such a new-fangled refuse-conveyance would not catch on. Heck, I even speculated about pneumonia in winter as one swabbed the oxters with a damp cloth and stood there in one's birthday suit freezing testicles off left and right because the windows were wide open during a blizzard and the steam pipes were on the fritz again.

Many British houses were NOT built for comfort.
Laundry is an occasional luxury.
Beer gets spilled.

She cut my discourse short by snapping "of course they're dirty, they're from England!"

Though there is an element of truth to that statement, it's not entirely true. England is more culturally diverse than it was decades ago, and many of the newer ethnicities have daily bathing customs.
She was a cigar smoker, so she may not have realized that.
Cigar smokers are enormously dense at times.
Sometimes their own funk dominates.
It's like white noise.

This world would be a much better place if all cigar smokers and Europeans were forced to at the very least wash their faces on a regular basis. Five times a day would be a good start. Soap and water.
And all of Northern Europe should have effective central heating.
So you don't freeze your testicles off taking a bath.
Or catch pneumonia swabbing your oxters.

I am a pipe smoker living in San Francisco.
Consequently I am fastidious.
And I smell good.

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Sunday, March 29, 2015


Unlike myself, you might not have heard of Kelantan till now, so a word of clarification is necessary. Kelantan, putative home of crazy-rape frenzied people, is a state of peninsular Malaysia on the northern border, which is overwhelmingly Muslim and backwards, and where the Islamic thugs terrorizing neighboring Narathiwat province in Thailand hide out and find adulatory sanctuary.
It is NOT a place you wish to visit.
Poor, primitive, isolated.

The Partai Islam se-Malaysia (P.A.S.; Pan-Malaysian Islamic Party) rules Kelantan. And has recently proposed implementing strict Sharia law.
Which is "problematic".

As no one actually knows what that means.

"I am positively terrified that these crazy, rape-frenzied people are actually the majority"

The chief minister of Kelantan, chieftain Ahmad Yaakob, presumes to know exactly what Sharia law entails, and snarls that critics are immoral liars.

[SOURCE: http://www.themalaymailonline.com/malaysia/article/kelantans-hudud-more-man-made-than-divine-islamic-scholars-say#sthash.SwHjMKb4.dpuf .]

And critics, some of the 'good' people of Kelantan insist, deserve death.
Along with rape and dismemberment.

[SOURCE: http://www.bbc.com/news/blogs-trending-32089787 .]

From an article in The Malay Mail, 'Kelantan's hudud more man-made than divine', it appears the critics and the chief minister are a rather ignorant lot.

As, likely, are most natives of Kelantan.

According to independent preacher Wan Ji Wan Hussin, Kelantan’s hudud proposal is “not even 20 per cent” of Allah’s original law according to Quranic texts.

Like Asri (note: Islamic jurist datuk Doctor Mohammed Asri Zainul Abidin), he pointed out that the punishments prescribed in Kelantan’s enactment, such as whippings and stoning for zina, or illicit sex, were not found in the Quran, but was based on the hadith.

“So when they are present in the hadith but not Quran, it involved interpretations from the scholars. There are elements of human hands here,” said Wan Ji, who is also the founder of the As-Syatibi School of Thought movement here.

“When it involved the view of the scholars, it is not wrong to criticise the enactment. When there are people saying that Kelantan’s hudud is not based on the Quran, there is truth in their claims.”

Last week, PKR central committee member Latheefa Koya claimed that PAS’s version of hudud is not in line with the Quran, listing down four differences between Quranic teaching on hudud and Kelantan’s Shariah Criminal Code (II) 1993 Enactment.

Latheefa pointed out that there is no punishment for apostasy in the Muslim holy scriptures, stoning is not mentioned in the Quran as a punishment, while the Muslim holy book has different requirements for the cutting of limbs and crucifixion, as well as different requirements for the offences of rape and adultery.

Saying that Muslims are obliged to accept the Quran’s hudud instead of “man-made” versions, Latheefa said all Muslims, including Muslim federal and state lawmakers, are obliged to reject PAS’s hudud.


The primitives are so adamantly frenzied in their support of witchburning errm, "hoo-dood", that they've inundated a journalist who spoofed the proposal with threats, many too horrifying and disgusting to detail.

This prompted an activist lawyer, Ms. Michelle Yesudas, to demand of the head of Malaysia's police, Inspector General Khalid Abu Bakar, what exactly he intended to do about the situation, because, as she put it, " I am positively terrified that these crazy, rape-frenzied people are actually the majority in my country".

[Source: http://www.bbc.com/news/blogs-trending-32089787 .]

Not surprisingly, speaking out got her hauled off the Police Headquarters for questioning. Inspector General Khalid Abu Bakar takes criticism of Islam seriously and threatens those who would disseminate such.

Just in case I ever head over to Malaysia, I wish to state that I am NOT criticising Islam at all, nor laws that enshrine hoo-dood. Not in the slightest. I have the deepest respect for the religious stupidity, honest ignorance and dumb-ass savagery of believers, not ONLY among Muslims, but also among Hindus, Christians, Animists, Trotskyites, and Wiccans.
But ESPECIALLY among Muslims in Kelantan.
Crazy, rape-frenzied, and utterly devout.
They are very sincere people.
Stupid, but sincere.


I do not wish to be arrested.


Despite the voices of common sense rising in a chorus against Kelantan Mentri-besar Datuk Ahmad Yaakub and the stout cave-dwellers of the rural hinterland, they are determined to try to push it through. There are huge numbers of people they wish to maim and kill.
Kelantan is choc-full of them.

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Last night the discussion at the cigar bar was all about the progress of the match between Australia and New Zealand, going on at that moment, which would determine the world championship in cricket.

The winner gets all the sheep they want.


Actually, I had two wishes for the entire championship, one of which was met, one of which wasn't.
Firstly, Pakistan shouldn't stand even a chance. And they didn't. They went down ingloriously in flames, totally wupped, slaughtered, beaten, smashed, and destroyed, before they got anywhere near the finals.
Secondly, it would be jolly nice if India won. But they didn't. Only thus far, and no further. India was defeated by Australia, and consequently the final battle was between countries with goofy accents.

In truth, we didn't really discuss cricket. Barely even talked about it.
If I hadn't brought it up, no one would have said a thing.

To the best of my knowledge, no other sports were mentioned. Which is a mighty good thing. Sports are boring. Whether or not sheep are involved.

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Saturday, March 28, 2015


A few years ago one of my readers suspected me of a perverse obsession after I embroidered a recipe for brined roast turkey with a description of young ladies enjoying pastries and slurping hot beverages. Actually, several readers accused me of that.
Silly me, I thought I was performing a public service!
I believe that everyone needs to know how to cook.
Even literate perverts and young ladies.

[It didn't help that part of the introductory theme of that particular culinary essay posited petite bespectacled teenagers possibly rubbing butter all over the plump bald bird before bunging it into the oven.  An 'all-family happy' Thanksgiving idea, as it were.]

My apartment mate, who still is a young lady, though in her forties, was cooking with chicken fat the other day. She mentioned that she could not understand why more people didn't use it. I opined that it was because most people nowadays were trying to eat all healthy and sh8t.
However, chicken fat was marvelous good stuff.
Her reply was short and succinct.


Personally, I am fond of many fats. Not just chicken fat, but also duck fat and pork fat, as well as lamb fat still hot and with peppery crusties at the bottom.

Fat, you will probably grasp, is something that must be shared. My apartment mate does not share hot fat with me. There is no romance between us, though we do graciously encourage each other to partake of the foods we put in the refrigerator. Partly that is because commercial measurements are predicated on family units of four to more than fifteen people ("family size"), rather than the requirements of single persons.
Partly because both of us are generous to a fault.

Well, she is. I'm rather a penny-pinching old sort.

I need serious inspiration to soften my hard ass.

Pastries and hot beverages ALWAYS work.

[I'm have some right now, as a matter of fact.]

Brined turkey, not so much. Whatever you do, it's still turkey. Every time you serve turkey, a baby angel dies. And kittens. Lots of fluffy kittens.

Turkey fat is the complete opposite of inspirational.

Turkey is the world's most boring sandwich meat.

Why Werner Herzog is obsessed with chickens I do not know. Turkey is far more stupid and evil than chicken. Maybe they didn't have any turkeys where he comes from. At least not during his formative years.
In which case, chicken is the next best thing.
Still, turkeys. Man.

If a nice young lady wished to discuss the dirty bird with me over pastries and a hot beverage, I would be somewhat at a loss.
I do not have much to say about turkeys.

Except this:

When brining a bird, the proportion of salt to liquid is 1:35.
That means for each tablespoon salt you will need 35 tablespoons (slightly less than two and a quarter cups) water. Use less sugar than salt.
For a big turkey you will probably need two or three gallons of liquid in all.
One gallon is sixteen cups. For each gallon, seven tablespoons salt. Plus a pinch extra.
You can replace some of the water with rice-wine, sherry, or fragrant vinegar.
Throw in some star-anise and ginger, plus other spices.
Do not add garlic - while it tastes good, the result will be reminiscent of Italian Salami. Which is fine, but not particularly festive.

First 20 - 30 minutes of roasting are at a higher temperature (425°) to colour the skin and get the heat into the bird. The remainder of the roasting, at 350 degrees, will take twelve minutes per pound of dead bird. So for a twenty pound turkey, about four hours.

Rest the bird for half an hour after taking it out of the oven.
Do not stuff it - if you need stuffing, make it on top of the stove, and use some of the pan juices for flavour.

If you eat with bowl and chopsticks, don't bother carving the bird, simply whack it into chunks with a cleaver, or cut it up with kitchen shears. Drizzle some of the pan juices over.

Roast bird is very good with hot-sauce: Sambal Oelek or Chili Garlic.

I am not a pervert.

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Friday, March 27, 2015


First off, I have to admit that I have strenuously AVOIDED most American sweets and candies of the cheap and garbage-y variety for years. Decades. Twinkies? The very idea repulsed me. Perhaps it was the goofy names. Never had pop-rocks, and it's only in the last few years that I've ventured into Butterfinger territory.
I always kind of assumed these things were trailer trash kibble.
Rather like American beer. Or canned malt liquour.
Nourishment for pimpled meth freaks.

What can I say? I live and San Francisco, and grew up with an entirely different bad food aesthetic. You know, when we live in Holland we had chocolate-slathered herring and green cheesy sugar bombs.
It so good! You really gotta try it!
Stupid Americans.


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DzBGSynNQhY.]

Rockets all over, and diwali in my mouth. Achcha! Now that these happy people are praising these things, well, except for the picky one who compares Twinkies unfavourably to mawa cake, I feel a perverse kind of personal national pride. We invented this stuff! Us! Americans!

"I have never toasted a pastry in my life."

Well yeah, that also. From pop-tarts to pop-rocks and beyond, there is so much I haven't ever eaten, and refuse to try. But I totally approve of them now, and cannot get enough of these exceptionally likable young folks (who probably live in San Francisco) testing and talking about these fine products.

Best line:
"This is gonna probably take me the entire cricket match, to eat."

I too am imaging a bunch of really hyper-active kids.
Seriously, I cannot get enough of this.
I've hit replay several times.

Thumbs up, American processed foods.

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Thursday, March 26, 2015


It is with quite a bit of startlement that I realize that ALL my seduction techniques involve food. Which explains why I've never gotten anywhere. In so diet and health conscious a city as San Francisco, slinking up to a likely young thing and whispering "would you like some fresh asparagus stirfried with sliced Chinese sausage and ginger, over a bed of boiled rice-stick noodles?" just won't work. In fact, it is guaranteed to fail, no matter how brilliant my cooking.
I like to cook, and do it rather well.

Mentioning real food to most people, more than almost anything else, qualifies one as a creep, a pervert, and an unmentionable deviant.

Especially if you whisper, and she doesn't know you.

She might scream and turn green.
Or even faint.

The Chinese sausage in question was fine-ground and on the lean side, though still sufficiently fatty for flavour. Sorghum liquor perfumed with roses was used to cure it, and it was meaty and thick. Rather than slicing it diagonally across, I cut it as if it were a stick that I was sharpening with a pen-knife, ending up with nice juicy wedges that contrasted delightfully with the toothsome sweetness of the asparagus.
Which I blanched briefly, before sauteing.

The ginger was coarse-cut, to flavour the frying oil, and add an interesting bit of zippity doo da in the mouth.

To balance the lime juice, I added a small jigger of soy sauce and some sugar before squeezing the citrus over.
Ideally, some chopped cilantro would have been a lovely idea, but why buy an entire bunch, if most of it will be thrown away?

I think you'll agree that fitness-obsessed modern young ladies would be offended by this. They prefer tofu and shredded wheat instead.

"Would you like some shredded wheat with tofu and ginger, over a bed of crisp and un-inspiring lettuce?"

"Organic Tamari?"

Unless I force myself to like shredded wheat, I am destined to go through life alone.

Chinese sausage goes wonderfully in many vegetable dishes.

I'll share it, but I shan't give it up.

Dinner took less time to make than to enjoy. And was almost certainly better than snuggle-bunnies. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I still have some asparagus left over.

And a lot of sausage.


There are other foods I like:

Yauchoi with abalone sauce
Boiled chicken
Fatty roast duck
Lovely little lamb chops
Fish flavour eggplant
Steamed oysters
Poached fish
Smoked trout
Pork patty with salt fish
Fatty pork chunks with shrimp sauce
Cumin potatoes
Mui choi kau yiuk
French fries dipped in Bearnaise
Ginger and scallion crabs

Mentioning any of these to other people is almost guaranteed to blight your romantic prospects.

Glowering will ensue. Along with expressions of distaste.

The ideal man eats tofu and shits handbags.

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Wednesday, March 25, 2015


As part of the Californian soul-searching that, like all residents of the Great Golden State, this blogger engages in, obsessively and on a regular basis, I have finally narrowed my quest for perfect bestial representation down to ONE creature. An important culmination.
A wondrous beast indeed.

It' is an organism that most perfectly represents me, and all my deeply meaningful aspirations. Well, except for the lack of Nikes. Good sportive footwear is another important quest. Equally important. As you know.
Can't be properly geared-up and outpimped otherwise.
Because being 'hip' takes effort.
I'm lazy.


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pa_HT9vQiLw.]

Like, dude.

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Several items I found in my inbox recently convince me that the world is a strange and dangerous place filled with individuals only tenuously grasping at reality. Not that I needed any further convincing at all, because I already despair over many humans and their frail intellects.
A few of my fellow bipeds are rather less brilliant than chimpanzees.
Or chipmunks, if chipmunks have chipmunkish brilliance.
Their mothers probably think they do.

Note to some of my readers and friends: Kindly shitcan it; president Obama is not Netanyahu's house nigger, so you should stop acting so bloody indignant.

[And cease sending me links to Pamela Geller. That bitch is certifiably insane.]

You would do well to remember that our president is the elected leader of the world's most powerful nation. A nation which funds Israel's security and continued survival to the tune of five billion in tax dollars every year. Whereas Israel is a small and incredibly irritating ally, for whom we feel a great measure of affection, and with whom we recognize that we have shared ideals, plus some significant commonalities.
Israel is by no means our most important ally.
Though sometimes a strategic asset.

Netanyahu, on the other hand, is b'emmes ein gefall.

Not quite a behaima und a lemmel.

But getting there.


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Tuesday, March 24, 2015


Several years ago while in Los Angeles some Filipinas roped me into an all-weekend mahjong game. Yes, of course there was food! Do you seriously think I would have done so willingly otherwise? Filipino food is better than drugs. From Friday afternoon till around nine o'clock Monday morning.
I was the spare hand, in case one of the girls needed to rest.
No, naturally I haven't played Mahjong since then.
Do I look like a Jewish grandma to you?

Hang Ah Alley: four mahjong parlours.
Spofford: at least a dozen more.
Ross Alley: one or two.

Wentworth Place, which used to have over a dozen legitimate businesses, now has as much mahjong as honest enterprise.

Mahjong was always prevalent -- you could hear the clack of tiles in the corner of your ear wherever you went, if not drowned out by recordings of Cantonese opera on some one's tapedeck -- but Chinatown is not as prosperous as it once was, and playing mahjong fades away the hours in the excellent company of people equally impoverished or unoccupied. Whenever there's an empty storefront, there's a very good chance it will become either a mahjong parlour or a Buddhist / Taoist shrine.
As well as a mahjong parlour.

I know all three people in this picture:


[Left to right: 'Mad Dog', 'Flaming Chassis', and 'Doodle-Poo'.]

I prophesy an evil end for them. They are headed down the primrose path of clackity-clack, a very severe addiction. Before you know it, they'll be creeping around my neighborhood late at night, red-eyed and desperate, looking for the last game of the day.

It's those cigars, I'm sure of it. They cannot handle them.
Too much nicotine for spongy little cerebellums.
Oh, the heartache! Oh, the pain!
The chemical stimulation!

Two of the stogies have barely been lit, the third will be shortly.  The picture was taken as they were still setting up for an entire afternoon's worth of intemperate behaviour (with more cigars, you can be sure of that!), possibly followed by unseemly amounts of liquor or espresso beverages.

I must say, I am shocked.

I had expected better.

Well, perhaps not.

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Monday, March 23, 2015


A number of my friends grew up in Marin County. Remarkably, they are rather normal. Well-adjusted, even. Maybe because many of them fled as soon as they were able.

Marin, in case you didn't know, is ground-zero of the anti-vaccination movement. And spirituality. I feel different after I've been in Marin.

My schedule takes me there several hours every week.

I promote "sacred native plant medicine".

Specifically, tobacco.


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_u0reE6bjI.]

"...and you must use 'reverse-reverse' psychology on them."
"You are SO ready."

I did not know what ayahuasca was until about fifteen minutes ago. Predictably, spiritual Dutchmen were involved in its promotion.

Are you in-touch with the unspeakable beauty within?

If not, move to Marin county now.

Everything from the Golden Gate Bridge north to Petaluma and Rohnert Park is like a superior spiritual version of the Netherlands. Except without the mosquitoes, cheese, and low-lying areas, or the smell of cows and people smoking dark shag tobacco or cigars. Just the pot.
Which is therapeutic.

One of the things I did this weekend was clean out a briar pipe gunked-up with the tarry residues and juices of Dunhill Nightcap (a full Latakia mixture which also contains black Virginia to boost the taste of the dark leaf) mixed with potent high-grade medical cannabis.

Canna - effing - bis!

I'm rather fond of Dunhill Nightcap, have been since I first discovered it in Holland when my local tobacconist ran out of Balkan Sobranie, and it took several weeks before he had located a wholesaler. His first supplier had disappeared since he stocked up on it several years before, you see.
I was the first person in a long time to develop a fondness for Balkan Sobranie. Over a period of two years I bought every tin he had.
Dunhill Nightcap mixture proved an excellent alternative.
It was lovely stuff. Enlightening.

The reek of high-grade medical cannabis makes me gag. Heck, any grade cannabis does that. It is far more offensive than a passel of angry skunks, about akin to stale beer vomit from a Caucasian frat-boy passed-out on Polk Street after "bridge-and-tunnelling" to the city for a weekend of antisocial behaviour.

I never would have thought of cutting tobacco with marijuana.
It seems downright sacrilegious, somehow.
Latakia is a sacred product.
I hate pot.


Some people like to smoke cigars after doing yoga.
Others prefer full Latakia blends.
They are special.

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Sunday, March 22, 2015


A school in upstate New York managed to insult a whole bunch of people by having the Pledge of Allegiance recited in other languages than English last week, as part of a program to expose some of the ignorant savages in its care to other cultural norms and sounds. Mind-expansion, as it were.

[Pine Bush High School, during National Foreign Language Week, meant to “promote the fact that those who speak a language other than English still pledge to salute this great country”. Other languages planned: French, Spanish, Italian and Japanese. Article in the Los Angeles times.]

This irritated the spit out of some ignorant savages.

Reason being that they lost kin in Afghanistan.

Or claimed Jewish ancestry, more or less.

A few, however, may be just stupid.

See, one of the languages was Arabic.

[About the term "ignorant savages": some of the greatest scientists and philosophers the world has ever known spoke Arabic as their first tongue, it is not a significant primary language in any part of Afghanistan, and Jews have spoken Arabic far, far longer than English.
These are facts. Objecting to Arabic because one is unaware of such things qualifies the person perfectly as an 'ignorant savage'. So suck it up.]

Here's the Pledge of Allegiance in Dutch, which predates English as a common tongue in New York: "Ik zweer trouw aan de vlag van de Verenigde Staten van Amerika en de Republiek voor wie zij staat, een natie onder God, onverdeelbaar, met vrijheid en gerechtigheid voor allen."

Now lets try it in Spanish: "Prometo lealtad a la bandera de los Estados Unidos de América y a la República a la que representa, una nación ante Dios, indivisible, con libertad y justicia para todos."

German? "Ich schwöre treue auf die fahne der Vereinigten Staaten von Amerika und die Republik für die sie steht, eine nation unter Gott, unteilbar, mit freiheit und gerechtigkeit für jeden."

And Italian: "Giuro fedelta alla bandiera, degli Stati Uniti d’America, e alla Repubblica che essa rappresenta, una nazione sotto Dio, indivisibile, con liberta e giustizia per tutti."

Polish: "Ślubuję wierność fladze Stanów Zjednoczonych Ameryki. I Republiki na której stoi, jeden naród indivisable, o wolności i sprawiedliwości dla wszystkich."

Perhaps now is the time to mention that as a descendant of the original settlers in Nieuw Amsterdam -- you know, the folks who BOUGHT the entire frikkin' continent from a bunch of Indians for twenty-two dollars worth of trinkets, and then taught the natives how to scalp -- and as a Dutch-speaker to boot, I am incredibly offended that all of you ignorant savages are speaking English.
We bought it. All of it. What the hell are YOU doing here?
The bright side of that is that there are already enough ignorant savages who speak Dutch, so we really don't need any of you lot to learn our language.

Now, here's the Pledge of Allegiance in the most important language in the world:


[Cantonese pronunciation, for San Franciscans: 'Ngo suen-sai haau-jung Mei-lei-gin-hap-jung-gwok gwok-kei kap haau-jung so doi-biu ji gung-wo-gwok, seung tai ji haa, mei ho fan-lit ji gwok-dou, ji-yau peng-dang chuen-man gaai-heung'.]

Damn, some of you 'English-Only' types are twats.

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Saturday, March 21, 2015


Twice in the last week, Chinese women asked how come I could speak Cantonese. In both cases I explained it was primarily because of movies. Several years ago there were movie theaters in Chinatown, and every week I would go watch the double bill at whichever venue had new releases. I got to see all of the Chou Yunfat (周潤發) gangster movies, as well as Andy Lau (劉德華) and Leslie Cheung (張國榮).
Three great actors, with phenomenal screen presence.
The ideal man, in several different portrayals.

That last part I did not say, though. Sufficient to acknowledge that they were incredible to watch, enormous art and entertainment combined.
I also didn't mention the great actresses, whose radiant on-screen personalities absolutely embodied the feminine hero-type and the model maiden much more than any of the modern Hollywood actresses, many of whom are scandalous slags, most of whom have only two talents.
Great Hong Kong actresses, however... total dynamite.
Cherry Chung, Maggie Cheung, Anita Mui

If I had to name perfection among non-Chinese womanhood, three examples come to mind: Agent Scully in the X-Files, Louise Belcher from Bob's Burgers, and Suzie Derkins from Calvin and Hobbs.
Brilliance, chutzpah, and strong-mindedness.


There haven't been any movie theatres in Chinatown for several years.
The neighborhood has changed over time. There are still movies, but you need to buy a converter for the discs, as whatever is available at reasonable prices with the original crappy subtitles will not play on American machines. Remastered versions with allegedly better subtitles, or even dubbing, are the standard outside of Chinatown.
Watching those isn't the same at all.
I liked the original subtitles.
Unique uses of English.
Very creative.

Nothing conveys the whomp of a Cantonese gangster flic better than snarled HK slang, and nothing expresses what the protagonist means more effectively. Adding surreal English-language subtitles underneath adds to the experience.

Dubbing, as an art form, is only worthwhile in German. The teevee series 'Bonanza', Marlon Brando, and Frank Sinatra, plus the film 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas', are so much more sparklesome when the characters speak that language instead of English.

One watches Johnny Depp and Benicio Del Toro snarl and gibber in the language of Goethe, and the world seems a brighter stranger place.

Dubbing for an American audience dumbs the material down, and when you throw in fake Asian accents and really bad voice-talent, the result is positively putrid. Simplified translations in subtitles, because the average Texan dumb-ass knows nothing of the contexts and cannot construe, makes the whole experience even less enjoyable.

The only possible exceptions: Anime series dubbed in English.
Genuine and realistic speech-patterns.
An educated audience.


I have to wonder what I sound like in Cantonese. My ex usually cringed when I spoke the language, and most American-born Chinese cannot quite figure out what that weird whitey is saying. Yet there are people who have no problem when I talk; the alternative, obviously, is that they otherwise wouldn't be able to have any conversation with me.
 Still, I have no doubt I sound painfully goofy.

Kind of like the white people in Hong Kong movies. The nun in that series of courtroom dramas. The female cop in several comedies.
The brutish blond thug in a couple of gangster tales.
But evenso, it could be far, far worse.
I could speak only Mandarin.
That's totally white.

One woman the other day speculated that my parents must have been Chinese. If that had been so, I would have been a very defective adopted son. Not fluent at all, and very very Honky.

Nice Chinese men don't smoke pipes.
And never have facial hair.
Or speak Dutch.

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Friday, March 20, 2015


Thanks to the BBC, we can now all get our knickers in a twist, or panties in a bunch. The difference being British (twisted knickers) versus American (panties). Personally I've always been of the opinion that 'knickers' sounds naughty and somewhat sleazy, as befits underwear in England, whereas the word 'panties' evokes innocence, freshness and youth, and a distinctly perverse Japanese aesthetic.
But that is not the point.


Which tastes better? Expats living in the United States are outraged that Hershey's has moved against small-scale import of Cadbury chocolate from overseas as an infringement against their sole right to represent the brand in the civilized world.

The BBC, always enthusiastic about pandering to Limeys sneering at the Yanks, enabled further discussion by reporting on a taste comparison.

Article here:
Does Cadbury chocolate taste different in different countries?.


Unsurprisingly, the Brits won.

Quite unlike their performance in the current Cricket World Cup.

In actual fact, both sides are quite utterly loony. They're discussing basic garbage sweeties, for Christssake!

Real chocolate comes from Belgium, Switserland, Norway, or San Francisco. Among other locations populated by neurotic taste-fiends.
It is made by upping the percentage of cacao-derived substances and quality ingredients, milling to finer grit, and mixing for a long period.

It most distinctly is NOT mass-produced, packed in cheap tin-foil and glitter, and shipped several hundred miles like toilet paper.

This is real chocolate:


Charbonnel & Walker



Planete Chocolat




There are a number of others, and here in San Francisco we claim several fine companies that will indulge your every tongue craving.
There is no need to touch Hershey's or Cadbury's ever again.
Unless you are an unalterable pervert.
We've got those too.


For drinking and cooking chocolate, almost nothing can beat Schokinag Schokolade Industrie Herrmann GmbH & Co. KG. Quite unfortunately I cannot find their home on the web, as German artisanal goody makers almost universally abjure, repudiate, and reject modern technology, instead preferring an army of dedicated trolls labouring in underground workshops deep in the Black Forest, and use carrier pigeons and flaming arrows for their business communication, damn them.

Their address, as near as I can make out from the runic scripts, is
Neckarvorlandstraße 21, 68159 Mannheim, Deutschland.
Fernsprecher: +49 621 107820

Far, far better than arguing over cheap mass-produced sludge-bars, you should share your opinions about knickers (twisted, or not) or panties (bunched, if that's your thing), along with lace edging options, tensile strength of the material, texture and touch, silk versus cotton.
The world anxiously awaits your findings.
Es ist ein wichtiges thema.
Go at it.

[Edit as of May 31st, 2016: Alas, Chocolatier Manon is no more. The link now leads nowhere and has been removed. But a new link has been added, for Planete Chocolate, which reader Yvonne kindly brought to my attention. Planete Chocolate also has an informative blog.]

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Thursday, March 19, 2015


The Asperger-mind likes repetition. Sometimes you know that engaging in certain thought-trains is a pointless and non-productive activity, but you cannot help yourself. I'm sure my father regretted ever introducing me to the music of Kurt Weil and Berthold Brecht; for over two years, a frequent routine in the evening was to curl up in the comfy chair with my pipe and a book after putting the Dreigroschen Oper or Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt Mahagonny on the Victrola, and spend hours drifting.
What made it probably excruciating for him was that rather than playing each opera all the way through and alternating, I would simply move the needle back to the beginning when it ended, and hear everything all over again. And again. And again. And again.

It was an early, explicable, and irritating manifestation of the Asperger's Syndrome with which all members of the household were touched. Him quite likely far less than any of us, but without fully realizing or objecting he functioned as the enabler of the three oddments, that being his wife and two sons. Plus the neurotic cats, naturally; they were opportunists.

All my life I have enjoyed re-reading books over and over.
Not, however, the best books a man could read.
Read Ulysses by James Joyce only once.
It's art, but it's gibberish.

The Asperger mind wants everything to remain exactly as it was while becoming more so. More Kipling, more Simenon, more Nabokov, more early period Heinlein before he become an egomaniacal drit writing grandiose mysogenic garbage.

Repetition is the key to excellence.

[Credit: Bill Watterson, a rare genius.]

On the minus-side, I have never understood the appeal of the full three-volume set of Lord of the Rings. None of the characters appeal to me, and the potential destruction of Middle-Earth does not clench my bowels. The linguistic aspect would be better illuminated in several short-stories, the sheer poetry of imagination comes across as dross and doggerel.

[The author did smoke a pipe, though; apparently Tolkien's constant tobacco was Capstan, a very nice medium flake in a blue tin, now available once again in the United States. And many Gandalf wannabees purchase a long churchwarden as their very first pipe. I shall imagine them swanning about in wizard-robes while learning how to smoke.]

Having recognized the pattern in myself a few years ago, before I even heard of Asperger, I consciously try to break it. Within very strict parameters of habit, of course.
Go to Chinatown as usual, but try to find something different to eat. Cook what I always cook, just vary the recipe, sometimes enormously.
Shift from this pipe-tobacco to that. Talk to different people.

[That last is very useful. We all tend to tell the same anecdotes, which eventually drives our nearest and dearest up the wall good lord is he on about THAT again?!?]

As a bonus, experiment with different authors. Find something that looks vaguely worthwhile at the very least, then read it. Don't limit yourself. Find out why every one else has damp knickers over this golden prose.


Charles Bukowski: crap.
Lawrence Ferlinghetti: crap.
Allen Ginsberg: pretentious crap.
Deepak Chopra: New-age crap.
Dan Brown (The Da Vinci Code): Loathsome, pretentious, badly written, and balderdash. The popularity of his book proves that the great American public doesn't know their ass from a hole in the ground. Urgh!
Barbara Cartland: unintentionally funny crap. "She..., she..., she... moaned as she fainted limply into his huge manly arms. Oh!"
Danielle Steel: I'm going to be sick crap.
Stephen King: uber-creepy crap.
Stephanie Meyer: sick crap.
Anne Rice: romanto-nauseating Goth crap.
Tom Clancy: spy crap.
James Michener: long-winded crap.

Actually, the list is longer than that. Far longer. But I didn't want to get repetitive. Trust me, though, when I say that the length of time it took to read this stuff was a painful waste.

Not a single one of them is worth re-reading. Some not even worth finishing.

The most exciting experiment in this period was "Hardhat Butterfly", a gay romance about a young lad from the farm states who gets a job working in the high rise construction industry, and has rough forceful sexual romps with a succession of heavy equipment operators, plumbers, pipefitters, sheet metal workers, rodbusters, and strong cement-pouring men.

It was simultaneously educational and hysterical.
Barbara Cartland, for hot hairy males.
I wish I knew who wrote it.

It bears repeating.

It was in a stack of books I donated to Goodwill.


I also tried reading Fifty Shades of Grey, but failed to complete the task, for two reasons: primarily because I refused to buy a copy and couldn't borrow it from my ex girlfriend, as she has absolutely NO interest in popular sado-masochistic filth and to the best of my knowledge may not have even heard of the book -- she's never mentioned it, and please remember that I have access to her bookshelves -- and consequently had to furtively leaf through it at bookstores like a trenchcoat pervert; and secondarily because what I have managed to scan is unbearably turgid, jejeune, and well-nigh excrementally unbearable.

E. L. James: filthy creep crap.

Calvin & Hobbs (by Bill Watterson), Bloom County (by Berkeley Breathed), Shermans Lagoon (by Jim Toomey), Frumpy the Clown (by Judd Winick), and George and Martha (by James Marshall) remain infinitely enjoyable. Likewise Edward Gory (Ogdred Weary) and his entire oeuvre.
See aforementioned access to "her" bookshelves.

She's read 'A Tree Grows In Brooklyn' (by Betty Smith) hundreds of times.

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One of the blending tobaccos that you either love or hate is Latakia. Strong of aroma, woodsmoky, outdoorsy, and leathery. The aroma reminds most rational people of armchairs in English clubs, distant Alpine vistas while drinking chilled Elbling on the veranda of Hotel Höflichfroschansicht in mid-summer, or private libraries with row upon row of ancient tomes.
With perhaps a little sherry on the side table.

Unfortunately non-smokers and many women tend to run screaming into the underbrush yelling "unclean, unclean" in shrill falsettos. Before setting the hounds loose and calling the health department.

The smell of Latakia is "traumatic" to the modern sensitive soul.

Which is sad. There are so many lovely associations the mind can make with a fragrance possessed of terpeneols, terpenes, pyrolytics, aromatic hydrocarbons, vitamin A, and minute traces of pyrene.

The modern sensitive soul abjures all that.

Being, basically, a wussy vegan.

Wheatgrass wearing.

This blogger is incredibly fond of smells like hot tar, hay, pine resin, smoldering oak scrub, forest fires, roses, peaches, hot rubber tires, machine oil, strong tea, coffee roasting, smoked meat, and leather.

No, I do NOT own a cowskin full-body sheath.

Nor would I recommend purchasing one.

Unless you are monastic.

And depraved.

You can, however, buy some very nice tasteful leather items.

Fine leather crafts, made in the U.S.A.

William Shaw Leather.

Click here.

Yes, this indeed a shameless commercial plug. I happen to know that the leather artisan in question is a fervent pipe-smoker, and am consequently pleased to mention him favourably.
Go, spend money.

There used to be a leather goods shop on University Avenue in Berkeley just below Shattuck, a few doors down from the Xanadu Pleasure Dome. While the latter 'sounded' more exciting, the leather shop was infinitely more attractive. Understated elegant objects.
Belts, wallets, bags, and, if memory serves me, coats.
Or were they bomber jackets?


Leather and Latakia naturally go together.
They perfectly compliment the person.
Gonz riezig und geshmak.

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Wednesday, March 18, 2015


Dinner was AWESOME! And, just another good reason not to eat in Chinatown with other people. Which I wouldn't mind doing at all, provided that they knew how to use chopsticks, and were familiar with Chinese food in more than a passing way. Including my ex, that's a group that can be counted on one hand.

Most people passing through do strange things like order shrimp-fried rice with sweet and sour pork, then try to eat what they just drenched with soy sauce from a flat plate with chopsticks while drinking cool refreshing Tsing Tao beer because there's a drought.
If I want shrimp-fried rice, I'll go to a Chinese restaurant that caters to Filipinos and Russians out in the avenues, and sweet and sour pork is only edible if you substitute fermented shrimp paste and hot sauce for the pineapple and ketchup.

One of my favourite restaurants was nearly empty when I got there, because it was still quite early. I had the counter entirely to myself. Stirfried bittermelon with chicken and the merest touch of black bean sauce, rice, a bowl of soup, and tea. I am very fond of bitter melon, but many people understandably find it a loathsome vegetable.


I don't often buy bittermelon in the markets, however, because greed overcomes common sense and the result is a BIG bag of warty things in the crisper, waiting for me to orgy-out before they spoil.

That usually happens when I have to go to work the next day. And, seeing as hot sauce or chilipaste is a necessary adjunct, and I like it really bitter, you can imagine that work can be a bit surreal.
That is to say, more surreal than usual.

Wednesday, in other words, is the perfect time to eat bittermelon.
There is no reason to rush out of the house tomorrow.

Monday and Thursday, not so good.

Other days, no go.

Some Chinese restaurants have bottles of Sriracha hotsauce, many of them however provide a little condiment jar or cruet of the slightly oily salty ground chili paste with which you are probably already familiar. One must be restrained with that stuff, because pepper seeds are indigestible.
Mother nature designed them so.

Consequently, they are somewhat energy-draining.

I am above all a temperate man myself.

Mother nature loves me.

*      *      *      *      *  

I mention this because this morning a friend brought a news item to my attention, which I am certain detailed the disastrous effect of too much chili on the fragile Anglo physique. Specifically, a British airplane had to return to Heathrow half an hour after take-off because some suffering Englishman experienced sudden eruptive intestinal distress while making use of the convenience chamber. The term "bio-hazard" was not mentioned at all, but I'm sure it came to mind.

An airplane is a confined space.

The 747-400 has a maximum passenger capacity of somewhat over six hundred passengers.

If nothing else, this proves that English people should not eat vindaloo, murgh makhni, gosht ka korma, maans achar, tanduri machli, tanduri murgh, tanduri boti, dam alu vindaloo, tarka dal, jinga masaladar, shab deg, or any type of zesty roti shoti whatsoever before taking off. Perhaps it is best if they fast, or cleanse themselves, ere venturing abroad.

Not being English, I can fully support that.

*      *      *      *      *  

Other than my own self the only other customers at that time were two women and a man, visiting our city from Blighty, judging by their accents. They were quite distinct, and though they sat at the far end of the dining room, I could understand every word of their conversation.

The salient element of which was: "mother dear, do you need to go to the bathroom?" This query was repeated a number of times, with the admonishment that it was downstairs, and she should leave her purse behind lest she forget it. In her state of extremis.

Yes, their shrimp-fried rice and sweet and sour pork had been delicious.

"Mother dear, do you need to go to the bathroom?"

Really, they couldn't eat another bite. More Tsing Tao, please.

"Mother dear, do you need to go to the bathroom?"

They wished for some boxes to pack up the remnant.

"Mother dear, do you need to go to the bathroom?"

It would go back to the hotel room with them.

"Mother dear, do you need to go to the bathroom?"

An admirable breakfast tomorrow!

"Mother dear, do you need to go to the bathroom?"

I hope they're flying out.

"Mother dear, do you need to go to the bathroom?"

Early A.M.

Anglos talk about the weirdest things.
Especially during mealtimes.
They are peculiar.

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One of my favourite people is in every way the perfect embodiment of a Japanese heroine-type such as you would find in a Manga drawn for both the independent-minded female reader and the lonesome teenage boy who abjures internet-based visual stimulation.
That is to say, she's of Japanese ancestry but surrounded by people with odd-coloured hair (brown, dirty blonde, near-albino wheat, copper, green or blue streaked, auburn, gold, dirty, or mousey-hued), smaller than most Caucasians of equivalent age, has a pretty face, and engages in a pleasing and ultra-civilised eccentricity not normally associated with either women or Japanese people (she smokes cigars).

Of course, I first took note of her because women are rare among the cigar crowd. Most aficionados of rolled-up tobacco are batsh*t crazy men, many of them with extroverted insecurities about their image.
In a word, typical dingos.

[Cigars can be enjoyed by any gender, taste buds are present in all. But several shapes are suggestive of psychological issues: toro, robusto, double corona, gordo...  let us not even speak of the Salomon or equally over-the-top figurados. Personally I seldom go beyond a forty to fifty ring gauge, and prefer no more than five inches. The seventy gauge seven incher is for a man with problems.]

Now, as a typical liberated modern male who is in many ways not much progressed emotionally beyond highschool or college, despite being older than Moses by mere chronological standards (i.e., youngish middle-aged), there are things about her that I appreciate very much.
Visually appealing, smart as a whip, and tolerance of tobacco.
Any one of those three puts her in the top ten percent.
The fortuitous combination makes her unique.

[The top cigar last year was the Oliva Series 'V' Melanio Figurado. Robust Nicaraguan filler and binder, Sumatra-seed wrapper grown in Ecuador. Six and a half inches, ring-gauge 52, pointed at both ends. A true work of art. Highly recommended.]

Typically, manga-babes are a complete fantasy. They seldom exist in the real world.

No, I shan't ask her out on a date, though that has crossed my mind.

It would be unprofessional, and disturb the force.

I like my women the way I like my manga-heroines: strong-minded fully formed individuals. In fact, precisely like most decent intelligent men imagine their mother to be, and wish their daughters to become.

I will admit that I have absolutely no clue what women think of that. Nor what most women think of their mothers or daughters. But I seriously doubt that women want their fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons, to be in any way like the majority of men in Manga, who are dysfunctional glandular freaks, brutish high-schoolers, warped fiends, or anguished lonely nerds wielding great swords of flame and power.
Often with very peculiar hairstyles.

I also like men who are precisely like manga-heroines: strong-minded and fully formed individuals.

No, not that way.

If they do wear panties and frilly undergarments, I have no wish to know. Their secret lives as gender-benders or cat-girls do not interest me im gonzen, and I sincerely hope they have no magic powers.
I'll be happy to discuss books or politics with them.
Perhaps over whisky and cigars sometime.
People with active minds.

I am rather blessed that I know a number of individuals like that, whose company is infinitely enjoyable. Most of them are men, of course. Given my age it would be naturally (and deliciously) suspect if I were to hang-around tearooms and women's clothing stores.

I am nothing at all like Ranma ½.


Cigars don't appeal to me very much, I vastly prefer a pipe. For a very long time that meant English-style blends -- Latakia, Turkish, and Virginia leaf, in judicious proportion -- though for the past four years or more I have veered toward pressed flakes and Virginia-Perique mixtures. Like many pipe-smokers I am somewhat obsessive, and it must be said that pipe-smoking often appeals to more introverted types, especially people with an eye for detail, along with peculiar interests and consequently books all over their digs. I'm not at all sure that cigar-smokers read much, if anything at all other than Cigar Aficionado magazine.

If they ever read Manga, or typical American Superhero comics, it is probably for the pretty pictures and zesty costumes. People with a genuine appreciation for the art-form are rare indeed.

I'm just mentioning this as a shout-out to geeks, most of whom do not smoke cigars. Who exist in either gender, and possibly several variants in between.
If anything, they too incline toward pipes and fine briar.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.


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Tuesday, March 17, 2015


San Francisco is filling up with all the wrong people. No, contrary to what you might think, this post is not about a particular ethnic group.
I know that the Teapartiers among my dedicated readership would wish that I write a rant about people from elsewhere who might not speak American English with optimum fluency, and have something like a tan but from natural causes like DNA. But this ain't that.
Sorry to disappoint you.

Instead, I wish to talk about people who, but for their hipness and with-it-ness, would be the types to get addicted to illicit substances and ruin their lives, starting a downward spiral that eventually lands them in an ultra-violent trailer park on the outskirts of Atlanta or San Antonio.
Precisely the type of person to whom exercise clubs aim their membership drives.

Healthy buff people of sensitivity and all the best taste.

One such came to a halt beside me as I was waiting for the light.
Exactly as I lit up one of my little cheroots.
Because I felt like a smoke.

"Hey! Do you mind?!?! I'm standing here!"

I'm not sure what he was thinking. Perhaps he felt that coming to a standstill in a particular place gave him ownership. Was he somehow 'entitled'? Was there an overlooked prior claim?
I thought about it for a second.

Then I told him: "yes".

"Huh? Yes what?"

"Yes, I mind your standing. SIT DOWN!!!"

Instinctively he started to hurk.
He caught himself before his tight athletic buns felt pavement, and said "hey wait that's not what I meant what I meant was that you are doing something I find incredibly offensive and it's unhealthy you should put it out I don't want to die from your smoke!"

"Oh I don't mind that at all, I'm QUITE enjoying it, there's a smoke-free corner over there. If you want to stay here, please don't breathe. That's MY smoke, and I begrudge you the second-hand pleasure. Mine. And I keenly begrudge you! Ever see a middle-aged smoker go ballistic?
Because if you haven't, I can demonstrate!"

See, ever since that cold spell back in December there's frequently a sharp hot stabbing pain in my right leg, that starts in the lower calf and on a bad day eventually climbs all the way up till at last even my arse is tingling and throbbing. It's extremely unpleasant. I had just been to Walgreens to pick up sourdough and a sixteen pack of toilet paper after walking around Chinatown with a pipe-full of Luxury Bullseye flake after tea -- one cannot smoke indoors in this pissy disapproving excuse for a city anymore, thanks to blisters like mister healthconscious hip young office droodge who was standing right next to me -- and in consequence my entire right leg hurt like billy-o.

Yes, I minded him standing there.

I wished him to go away.

Or just shut up.

All of you people who came here from elsewhere in the United States, go back there. You're breathing our air, and we don't like you.

My leg hurts, and you're pissing me off.

The light finally turned.

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