Tuesday, June 30, 2015


A friend kindly alerts me to graceful bathing. Specifically, a small huggable animal thoroughly enjoying a nice cooling splash in the water, which, seeing as it was a warm day over in Marin today, is an immensely appealing concept.

It was warm enough for me to head into the powder room to splash my face and oxsters with cold water at the sink, after which I was quite refreshed.

Had anyone seen me doing so, I would no doubt have not looked nearly as angelic as our little friend below.


Baby Armadillos love baths.
Posted by The Motherish on Sunday, June 28, 2015

The video is from the Facebook page of The Motherish.

When my coworker saw me after I finaly exited the powder room, he asked me if my time in there had been educational.

I just smiled beatifically, and replied "ooh ah".

More about powder rooms tomorrow.

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It is more than a little disturbing to me that the stuffed animals have more exciting love lives than myself. Why, they seem to be full of vibrancy, spirit, and, dare I say it, passion.

[Necessary background for new readers: There are over two dozen stuffed animals in this apartment, collectively refered to as "The Roomies". Nearly half of them reside in the room of my apartment mate, where they guard the jewelry box and cluster around the "Head Roomie", who is a fearsome senior teddy bear of great wisdom and perspicacity. The rest are on my side of the apartment, and unfortunately represent a lack of sanity and balance. For some inexplicable reason, I have all the loonies.]

Given the right circumstance, I likewise could be full of vibrancy, spirit, and passion. Though it seems hard to imagine now, having not been in such a situation for several years.

Ms. Bruin is being courted by Arabello Oyster, that being the control monkey, who is a small purple-black gorilla. The fuchsia striped cat has Max (a sockmonkey), and Miss Angus (the she-sheep who is the acting head-roomie when Ms. Bruin takes a break) is seeing a big black spider with bright blue eyes and an intelligent hopeful expression on his face.

There are other relationships, but we need not describe them.

Almost all of these couples are very well matched.

Suffice to say I am quite jealous.

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Monday, June 29, 2015


The bad news is that Anna Bakery (安娜閣) has closed. They had been in business for a long time, and their pastries were rather delicious. They also served cooked food (lunch, dinner) and did the saam song yat tong deal for meals that so many people like.
Nice food, good price.

[Deal note: 三餸一湯 'saam song yat tong': three dishes and a soup. A set price meal with multiple options for the three dishes. In many lunch places catering to the single eater, it refers to three scoops of whatever alongside your rice and a bowl of old fire broth (老火湯 'lou fo tong'), in dinner places and cha chanteng (茶餐廳) it will more usually be a choice of three full menu items plus rice and soup, suitable for a small family or two to four people with healthy appetites.]

The good news is that Sam Wo will open in that location in a few weeks.

715 Clay Street, San Francisco, CA 94108.

Just up from Kearny.


The rebirth of creatively rude and spiteful tableservice will no doubt be welcomed by young couples going out on a first date. Nothing (!) says romantic dining better than a disciple of Edsel Ford Fong telling you what's wrong with you, and what you really should be eating.

Grumbling, snarking, and snarling.

It's like salt.

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On Friday, the Supreme Court of the United States made gay marriage a legal reality. In the weeks leading up to this decision, men of the cloth and their hot-breathed lay enablers predicted that the world would end, a wrathful deity would destroy the nation forthwith, and the traditional family was at peril.

Actually, the traditional family has been pretty much shredded. Divorce, birthcontrol, wife-beating, and the well-publicised tawdry affairs of various highly moral politicians and preachers did that ages ago.

[Add cocaine, congressional pages, and booze ... ]

The traditional family was not that big a deal anyhow.

But if our rightwing politicians cannot act as exemplars of the highest moral standards, what is there? Certainly not the preachers; they're nuts.

It would appear that the Jesus crowd is composed largely of adulterers, child molesters, drunks, and screamingly batshit teabaggers.

Collectively known as "The South".

Mind you, it isn't all of the The South, and it isn't limited to The South.
That term should be understood as both a state of mind, and an all-encompassing concept.

Even the survivalists in the upper peninsula (Michigan) are "The South".

They've got guns, Jesus, and a fear of the zombie apocalypse.

[And more MREs than Fema and the army combined.]

I, for one, am extremely disappointed that Southern men of g-d haven't set themselves on fire in protest, as was promised (!), and that zombies have not started eating everyone who likes banjo music.

It would have been so nice if Texas had gone up in flames due to massive asshat brain-explosions.

I feel cheated.

Life continues as normal, society still functions as fitfully and fully as it did beforehand. And The South is still, unfortunately, with us.

This is horrible.

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Sunday, June 28, 2015


Contrary to the opinion you may have formed after reading this past week's blogposts here, I am really a very sweet-tempered guy. Indeed, occasionally I wax wroth at spiritual dill pickles with a nauseating sense of entitlement (Marinites, this morning), dumb-ass rightwing butheads with comb-overs (Donald Trump, yesterday evening), bloated Midwesterners, Euries, and suburbanites (tourists, Friday), childish Canadian lesbians (on Wednesday), twinkies with Hello Kitty shit (Wednesday morning), Chinese people who sneer at everything you own because what they have is SO much better, or more unusual, or higher quality than anyone else's (likewise Wednesday morning, and thank G-d those snobs don't know beans about pipes or tobacco), the trolls who insist that everyone should speak English or else (tourists, right-wingers, and xenophobes, on Tuesday), and uncomplicated silly bints like beauty queens and/or blondes (Monday).

You might get the impression that I'm full of bile.

But really, I love people. I'm a complete softie.
I most particularly like pipesmokers.
Especially if they're women.
And brunette.

There you have it. I exude the milk of human kindness.

Precisely like Hello Kitty!


I just wish that bunch of partying GAY people across the block were a little quieter. Yes, I know it's Pride Weekend, and they're all giddy waving their little rainbow banners, AND it's still light out, and good heavens same-sex marriage is finally legal nationwide.

But does the gay agenda HAVE to include loud yelling and inanity?

Didn't straight sportsfans already claim that?

Along with lousy beer?

Dammit guys, can't you just be abnormal, and celebrate in silence?

Do something meditatively delirious.


Please drift to and fro gracefully with pompoms.

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There are too many yoghurt commercials on teevee. This is not because people love yoghurt, but because they enjoy pizza, crunchy bits, fried stuff, and salt. The poor dears are either plugged up, or full of dietary guilt. Eventually it must come out.

I actually like yoghurt; it counteracts the effects of Marin.

How on earth did Marin become the epicentre of entitlement, vanity, self-indulgence, alternative philosophies, and consumerism in Northern California? Is it any surprise that the Emerald Triangle starts there?

Pot, plus potheads, and potty spiritualists.

They really need some yoghurt.


Folks, convert your hot tubs to vessels in which to make yoghurt. What use could be better than that? Especially during a drought. And for crap sakes cut back on pot; growing it is incredibly wasteful, uses tonnes of water, and smoking it turns whatever tiny minds you might have -- not there's any convincing evidence that you folks actually own such things -- into even worse pudding than they already are.
Basically, runny grape jelly.

I've seen you think, and I am not impressed.

By the way, you are NOT allergic to gluten. Or meat.

You are just too obsessed with yourselves. That, too, can be cured by switching from pot to yoghurt. And I fervently urge you to make the switch. No, you will not have uncontrollable seizures, or debilitating migraines.
Your back will not go out. You won't be nauseous.
Life and civilisation itself will not end.

Those are misapprehensions.

Instead, you'll wake up with a new sense of reality, and look around all bright-eyed and filled with wonder at the world around you. The fact that you are no longer the centre of the universe will be a profound release.
You will enjoy new freedom and awareness.

And you will finally poo.

You are full of it.


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Saturday, June 27, 2015


In consequence of Donald Trump's conversations with Federal employees who guard our borders, Univision decided to not broadcast the most trivial and overblown non-event of the year.
Because Donald Trump publicly divulged what some United States government functionaries think about Latinos.
One presumes that the respondents in question are rather WASP.
Of the same ethnicity as the Trump.

[See this informative article: "Trump dumped, potential moneylenders' playthings flummoxed". Note that the position of the 's' (before the apostrophe)  makes the re-titling non-actionable. And seriously, anyone whose daughter participates in a meat auction of that type needs to disown her. Or abort the baggage. Talent show, hoo hah!]

"At Univision, we see first-hand the work ethic, love for family, strong religious values and the important role Mexican immigrants and Mexican-Americans have had and will continue to have in building the future of our country," the company said. "We will not be airing the Miss USA pageant on July 12 or working on any other projects tied to the Trump Organization."
End cite.

Good thing too. Donald Trump's run for president promises to be quite likely one of the most ridiculous campaigns of an election already filled with dingbats, cavemen, and retrograde psychopaths. Please, can we force all the clowns back into the Volkswagen? If we remove all the comb-overs and toupées, there will be enough room for all the overblown egos.

"They're bringing drugs, they're bringing crime, they're rapists, and some I assume are good people, but I speak to border guards and they tell us what we are getting."

The problem is NOT that Trump says stupid things -- we expect that, sadly, and he has the right to do so -- but that he speaks to stupid people.
Some of whom, allegedly, are active in law enforcement.

Seriously, I want names. Who are these people?

And are they all Bob from Texas?

Who hired them?

Also important to know, did they actually manage to get any words in edgewise while talking to Donald Trump, who himself admits that he "can't be silenced"?

Has anyone ever told him "Donald, please shut up"?

On the surface, there does appear to be a slightly higher rate of criminal incarceration among immigrants, per the Center for Immigration Studies, but given that many states are notoriously enthusiastic about clapping everybody who isn't white into the slammer (I'm looking at you, Texas), and others rigorously crack down on anyone who looks foreign (hello, Arizona, you vast expanse of shit), the numbers are probably skewed.

Nationwide, the likelihood of being arrested is far less if you're an Anglo.

Remarkably, the age-group one belongs to is also a factor.

I'll let you connect all the dots on this one.

Never the less, Anglos may be "privileged".

Your chances of being an Anglo if you are Mexican are not particularly great. Not impossible, but by no means statistically significant. You could be Mayan, for instance. Or some other "ethnicity".
True Texans and Arizonans are white.
Remarkably Trump-like.

Here's a thought ...

You know, Frat boys bring drugs, crime, and rape. Sure, some of them are good people, but most of them are arrogant hormonally charged jocks who party all the time. Drunks, perverts, and swine.
Lets keep the Frat boys out.

Donald Trump reportedly belonged to Phi Gamma Delta, a fraternity associated with drugging and assaulting female students at Georgia State, vicious immorality at Texas Christian University, apparently random sexual attacks in Minnesota, as well as any number of depravities around the country. Sickening.


Parents in college towns where there are Fraternities are well-advised to own guns. Even if they don't have daughters.

The NRA would approve of that credible threat of justice.

Let us examine Trump's college records.

We want to know what he did.

Or, allegedly, didn't.

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Friday, June 26, 2015


It was a striking combination! A cardigan that came down to the upper thigh, and shorts that didn't. Consequently an attractive amount of sleek golden leg meat was appealingly viewable.

This blogger likes warm weather!

I was having a 鴛鴦 over ice at the 華盛頓茶餐廳 when she walked in to purchase a Swiss Roll. Which is a log shaped confection, sheet-cake rolled around a layer of cream, very nice. No, despite her shall we say, pudginess, it was almost certainly NOT all for her. And I shall rename the pudginess baby-fat, because on her it looked good.
Damned good. Good enough to eat.

This blogger likes warm weather because at heart I am still a teenage dirty old man.

Normally what heaves into view when I'm sitting in the window with a beverage, looking out across the street, is a motley collection of overweight tourists, dog-ugly tourists, and remarkably sullen looking glandular freak tourists. Europeans and travellers from the Midwest or the Central Valley with remarkably bovine faces, possibly inbred, most definitely dull.
As well as their impossibly icky offspring.

Interspersed among them are elderly locals spryly side-stepping the lumbering heffalumps, and Cantonese parents guiding their kiddie-winkies while telling them not to bump into the bloated lizards.

You know, if modern middle-class Americans didn't pound down so damned much junkfood, they'd be a lot happier, and probably more intelligent looking too. Their piggy eyes wouldn't seem so dwarfed by the jowls, or hidden in an expanse of puffiness.

San Francisco is a food Mecca, and consequently many tourists are lost here. There are so few places where you can get a good double bacon greaseburger, biggiewiggie fries, and a cold bucket of soda.
Oh, the sadness, heartache, despair!
There's nothing good to eat!
We're gonna all starve!
Fried chicken!

Have you noticed how few overweight Chinese you see here? And guess what - many of them eat Chinese food! Does that tell you something?

Yes the Europeans look slightly leaner.
But they are much meaner too.
That old-world attitude.
Existential angst.

Okay, I realize that much of the text above was incredibly vicious.
And I'm sorry.

I left out far too many people. Irritating South-Indian mommas and their spoiled brats. Syphilitic savages from Dixie. The kind of executives who get sent out of town to conventions. East Asian hookers with go-go boots and pancake make-up. Priggish Filipinas and their wussy menfolk. Black, white, and brown trash from the suburbs. Stuck-up yuppies, marketing types, and "professionals", who have flocked to the city and driven rents through the roof. Young urban hipsters. Trust-fund brats. All the crazies whom the rest of the country unloaded on us, so that they wouldn't get shot by the police in Dumbcluckistan. Who are mostly morons and ex-football players. Unwashed Mediterranean types. Pierced freaks, and intellectuals.
Young men with greasy hair. Tattooed artists. Russians.

There. Is that better? Have I forgotten anyone?

Please let me know by leaving a comment.

I'll cover them in the next rant.

This blogger likes warm weather and curvy thighs. As well as cold caffeinated beverages, mature Virginia pipe tobacco, tender mustard greens, bittermelon, rice stick noodles, and roast duck.
Plus a seat behind glass to watch the uglies pass.

She had a cute face too. Bright intelligent eyes, and a curious mien. There was an air of total involvement about her as she thoughtfully considered which delicious cake-product to buy.

Which was admirable and charming!

This blogger likes cake.


鴛鴦 ('yuen yeung'): Mandarin Ducks. 鴛 is the male, 鴦 is the female. They are a symbol of marital constancy, as well as a delicious beverage composed of coffee, tea, and condensed milk. 華盛頓茶餐廳 ('waa seng duen chaa chaanteng'): The Washington Bakery and Restaurant, around the corner from Portsmouth Square. 瑞士卷 ('seui si kuen'): Swiss roll, a rolled sponge cake filled with whipped cream, jam, or icing. In Chinatown it's usually coffee, chocolate, pandan, or plain flavoured. Imagine a thick slice of that with sabayon! Mmmmmmmmm!
蛋糕 ('daan gou'): cake.

Highly improper afterthought:
肥妹的靚腳... 嘩, 好嘢喎!

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Thursday, June 25, 2015


Sometimes life just sings. Yesterday I wasted so much valuable time that in the end I decided to postpone laundry and simply go out and have an early supper in Chinatown.
It had been a while since the last bit of roast goose -- which, along with roast duck, is a favourite -- so naturally I ended up at the only place in town that does it.

Actually, there may be more than one place where you can get it, but at Yee's you get it for a very reasonable price, and the quality is excellent.
They also do various other things that you need.
Like 冬瓜炆田雞, or 南瓜炒田雞。
As well as 石狗公。

[冬瓜炆田雞 = 'dung gwaa man tin kai'. 南瓜炒田雞 = 'naam gwaa chaau tin kai'. 石狗公 = 'sek kau gung'.]

I need not inform you what "ricepaddy hen" really means.
If you eat in Chinatown, you already know.
It's good for you.

"Stone dog duke", however, is a damned ugly fish.
That tastes quite superlative.

What you want at Yee's is called 'siu ngoh fan'.
Which is roast goose over rice.

Yee's Restaurant
1131 Grant Avenue,
San Francisco, CA 94133.

['man chai kei siu lap cha chan teng']

Jezus, that was a lovely meal. Probably the best roast goose I have ever had there. Moist and succulent, just the right amount of grease and salt to compliment the otherwise beefsteaky flavour of the meaty bird, with some blanched lettuce to sop up additional juices, plus a bowl of simple house soup to benefit the digestion and further the enjoyment of a delicious meal. They've got bottles of Sriracha, by the way.
Dipping the roast skin into hotsauce is extra divine.

Yeah, of course afterward I loaded up a pipe, and wandered down two deserted and remarkably clean alleyways. It was still light out, but very peaceful. Life just could not get any better.

If I ever take a date to Yee's, there are several things I think we should have. Food to share is always cozy. But until then, roast goose rice, followed by a pipe.

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Wednesday, June 24, 2015


Feedback from the previous post indicates that some people do not grasp the entire Hello Kitty gestalt. There were also some remarks about plushies and sheitels, but they were beyond consideration. However, the person who wrote me that I was a sick f*&^! for turning a cute childish item -- which was innocent and should give joy to tykes -- into a tool of tobacco use (viz.: perfect man-purse for carrying around smoker's requisites), something TOTALLY evil and unmentionable -- is actually someone I know well, and whose opinions I would NORMALLY respect. Despite her being an overweight childish lesbian of doubtful antecedents.
She's Canadian. Those people have issues.

Naturally she reminds me of Eric Cartman.


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGR8pN0t_fU.]

Some of my best friends are all overweight Canadian lesbians.

No overweight Canadian lesbians were harmed.

Childish drips or otherwise.


I respect Canada too much. But clearly, years spent in the Great White North, where there's nothing but Molson's malt liquor and polar bears making snow angels for entertainment is damaging to the psyche.
Some Canadians are weak-minded and cretinous.

I'm surprised that Lardinettie only just now became aware that my favourite pipe and tobacco carrier is a cute Hello Kitty mini-backpack, such as a sweet little girlie would shlep around. A statement of style!
For her very own smoker's requisites, of course.
It's mine, bitches, back off!

I've mentioned it before.




Yesterday, Hello Kitty indulged in a medium English-style mixture (about forty percent Latakia, twenty percent Turkish leaf, and the rest flue-cured tobacco) several times, as well as a goodly bowl of Luxury Bullseye Flake. There was also a nice blend I made myself, very simple: mostly aged Virginia flake, some blonde ribbon, and plain Cavendish. The pipes were a selection of Petersons, all smooth, a fine French item from Paris with gorgeous grain, and a Canadian of American provenance.
There were two extra briars, just in case.
And a tin of cigarillos.

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This blogger unhappily admits to personal flaws. No, shan't detail them, because you might start noticing, and it would become an obsession that would gradually eat away at your esteem for me.
Sadly, I am not as perfect as I dearly hope you think I am.
But one flaw I do not have is a brutal tongue.

I am an exemplar of passive aggressive discretion.

That's one of the reasons I blog.

Overheard comment:

"It was one of those things where you think Chinese people are the most insensitive shits you've ever seen."

Sometimes I agree with the person who said that.
There are times when that opinion is valid.
As are many of her other opinions.

But no matter how insensitive Chinese people -- especially snooty Chinese Americans -- can be, they don't hold a candle to perfectly average prosperous Caucasians smoking cigars. Such as the very dear people I see several times a week when I babysit the entitled classes of Marin County.

Who are on the whole rather self-satisfied, cocksure, and iggerunt.

They gave me hell about my Hello Kitty pursy, the insensitive clods.

Look, if I were a woman, between fifteen and let us say forty, with a Hello Kitty mini-backpack, there might be reason to doubt my sanity. Women with a Hello Kitty fetish are pulling a little girlie attitude, and may be quite silly. Probably unbearably so.

Little girls with a Hello Kitty bag, or anything Hello Kitty, are normal, and often entirely unaware of the possible ickiness of the item.

Little boys with Hello Kitty have issues.

But a lean middle-aged man with a pink and black Hello Kitty mini-backpack is the veritable glorious paradigm of self-assured manliness. You do NOT diss him. Not if you want peace and quiet everlasting.

The Chinese person that Savage Kitten (my apartment mate) referred to was "a short frog-like person" whom she worked with years ago. One of those snotty types who did everything better, owned everything better, knew everything better, and and regularly pissed on everyone else's joys, because she was a better taste higher class person.

The kind of person, in other words, who knows the best brandnames, but not one iota of actual quality. Like the people who demand Remy Martin, truck around Louis Vuitton, and spew the words Davidoff, Dunhill, Prada, and Hermes, with a smug proprietary air.
But begrudge the waiters at a restaurant a decent tip.

People like that always do everything better.
They also own things that are better.
And they ARE much better.

I myself don't know very many of that type, what with being white and rather oblivious to some immigrants' ridiculous pretensions. But my apartment mate, being a locally-born person of sterling Chinese ancestry, seems particularly aware of them.
She's thin-skinned about snooty types.
And is better than she realizes.
Far, far better.

I dare not ever introduce her to the Marin cigar-smokers; she'd rip their insensitive guts out. Or bash them about the head.
With MY backpack.

She doesn't like dipwads either.

Or Hello Kitty.

Please note that I do not always carry my Hello Kitty 'pursy. It's useful for when I head over to Marin four days a week, because it is the perfect size for half-a-dozen briar pipes, a supply of pipe-tobacco, tampers and other tools, plus pipe-cleaners and matches.  On the days when I'm off, I leave it at home, because I do NOT want single women to assume that I'm a grandpa and have a little urchin I pick up from school everyday because her mommy works.

There was the time I spoke to four very nice young ladies from the Mandarin-speaking part of the world, who wanted a recommendation for a good Cantonese restaurant. Even when I showed them the box of cigars I was delivering to the Oxxy, they remained unconvinced that I was a bachelor. Because, of course, the box of Padron 1926 Series 80th Anniversary Maduro Torpedos was IN the Hello Kitty backpack. Sadly, that may have nixed my chances of further conversation.

Whenever I'm wandering around San Francisco with pipe and tobacco, there is no need for a full-day's worth of smoking supplies. One or two briars in the same pocket as the pouch of broken flake is perfect.


More than anything else, the following is perverse:

Hello Kitty® Day

Back by popular demand, the Giants are proud to welcome you to AT&T Park to join them in celebrating Hello Kitty Day! On this particular day, various pre-game and in-game components will be themed around the global pop icon Hello Kitty, providing a family-fun atmosphere that Giants and Sanrio fans of all ages can enjoy! Your Special Event ticket package includes a ticket to the Sunday game versus the Rockies and a collector's-edition "World Champion" Hello Kitty/Giants-themed Gnome, only available with the purchase of this Special Event ticket! Please stay tuned to sfgiants.com/specialevents, as additional details will be announced closer to the date.

[SOURCE: http://sanfrancisco.giants.mlb.com/sf/ticketing/group_special_events.jsp#hellokitty .]

No, I shan't be there. The idea of surrounding myself with teenage girls of all ages and several genders united by their squealing love for a fictitious feline is a little bit daunting.

Please forgive my lack of enthusiasm.

Sports are stupid.


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Tuesday, June 23, 2015


There's one phrase that several people use which, almost more than anything else, irritates me. Usually the people uttering it are quite unaware of the poisonous connotations inherent in that phrase, or how well it reveals their stunted self-righteous provincial bigotry. Quite often they are also borderline, or far over the brink, Republican, backwoods, narrow-minded, intolerant, and on the whole rather remarkably stupid and ignorant.
Besides being all-American.

Can you guess the phrase?

"They should learn English!"


The phrase is stupid and offensive, because the people about whom it is said already know that an inability to express themselves in English handicaps them and bars their advance. And furthermore, on a daily basis, they experience moments of complete incomprehension, and crippling barriers to "Americanity".

The rearendhats saying "they should learn English" do not take this into account, but blithely assume that the objects of their ire are perversely determined to not speak English like normal people. Why, it must be some foreign hatred of Anglos that inspires them to be so obtuse!

Many Americans are completely unable to learn any other language, and take for granted that all foreign tongues are deliberately difficult, or just too illogical for a civilized person to speak.
Certainly not if they have English as an alternative.
Because English is just totally perfect.
Jesus spoke English.

English is better than sex!

And sex, of course, is better if you speak English.

In actual fact, English is rather hard to learn, and the ridiculous orthography does not make it any easier. Several hours of study a week will get you a minor amount of conversational fluency after two to four years, but until then it seems a waste of time, and the limited amount you know will not win you any Brownie Points. Native speakers of English will still act like shitheads, and people from the vast uneducated trailer park between the San Francisco Bay and New York will still think themselves entitled to be rude, crude, and altogether hateful.
Monolingual English-speaking Americans can be very unpleasant.
Which is rather the opposite of encouraging.
Downright effing Texan, in fact.

By the way, if you are offended by this essay, please bear in mind that it is in English. Entirely so. Because you are incapable of comprehending any other tongue.
Over one hundred different languages are spoken in San Francisco.
And we're a darn sight better than you lot.
Please don't visit.

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Monday, June 22, 2015


My apartment mate is staying home today, as she does not feel well. Now, being a logical sort, for me the evidence points to a recurrence of the menses. As happens every four weeks or so. It's one of the more obvious benefits of having a woman living in the other room. One gets exposed to many things that fratboys would rather not think about.
No, I shall not explain what the menses is.
I've done that before.

I myself am not feeling particularly well either, but it has naught to do with body fluids or delicate female tissues. More of a case of being whacked out of my gills on coffee last night, which necessitated roaming around Nob Hill after midnight with a pipe and a jovial attitude. You see, I had had about four hours sleep Thursday night, maybe five hours on Friday night, and another four and half Saturday night. The wisest choices were NOT made, and error was compounded by a surfeit of coffee upon coming home yesterday.
Everyone relaxes with coffee after work, it's normal.
It wakes you up while calming you down.
Just ask Mrs. Olson.

My apartment mate woke up an hour ago, and is now watching real crime television while typing e-mails. She likes murders, especially if they've been committed by a woman.

"I shot him out of self-defense; he had a knife!"

This is the kind of thing that perks her up. She often feels that the person under discussion should A) have grabbed the gun earlier; and B) should be declared a long-suffering saint.

Wisely, I keep my mouth shut at those times.

I almost never watch tv.

"The title of beauty queen ALWAYS goes to some dingy blonde with normal eye-balls!"

What this means is that the lop-eyed brunette never gets it. Neither does the zesty red-head with smaller than average tits, or the talented short woman who graduated summa cum laude. No normal women qualify.
Hatched-faced blondes, however, lead a charmed life.

The problem with being high as a kite on coffee when operating on not enough sleep is that you end up even more exhausted than you can understand at the time. Finally got to bed after three o'clock, had weird dreams till late morning (mostly involving monkeys and little kitties demanding lobster mousse), and woke up dithery and abstracted.

This, obviously, isn't going to be the most productive day off.

I really should be doing laundry, it's long overdue.

Instead, I will just pong a bit.

The advantage of being a pipe-smoker is that I can disguise my mild unacceptability with the marvelous fragrances of fine flue-cured leaf, resinous Turk, and fine tarry Latakia. Exotic, and mysterious.
Must avoid Perique, though; too sweat-socky.
No Burley either, obviously.

Fortunately, my nether garments are spotlessly clean.
I always make one hundred percent sure of that.
Just in case I get hit by a speeding car.
No need to shock witnesses.
Or E.R. staff.

It's a question of priorities.
I was raised right.

Can't smoke my pipe in the apartment, though. She's staying home, which means I need to roam around Nob Hill and Chinatown for several hours.
I shall need coffee for that. Plenty of hot coffee.
Or maybe milk-tea and a snackipoo.

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

Sunday, June 21, 2015


One of the songs I discovered on you-tube only a short while ago keeps going through my head. It's an in-yo-face hymn in Panjabi by a darkly handsome stranger I had heretofore neither heard sing, nor heard of.

Diljit Singh Dosanjh is a relative youngster, being as of this writing barely thirty-one years old. He's a movie maker, actor, singer, television presenter, and philanthropist.

And a proud Sikh.

The video below is just buckets full of Panjabi balls.


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IrzjYX1yJOs.]

The guys dressed in blue in the video are Nihangs. NOBODY messes with a Nihang. They are still the shock troops of the tribe.

Nihangs have no fear, and will willingly die for their faith and their people. No, they aren't coming soon to a church near you, because Sikhism is not a belligerently proselytizing religion, unlike Fundamentalist Christianity (Gatsamme!) and whatever that repulsive Gnostic and Manichean heathendom is that dominates in Texas. It's a philosophical religion adhered to by stubborn people in Northwest India.

They aren't patsies or pushovers, by any means.
Resolve is part of their psyche.

ਚੁ ਕਾਰ ਅਜ਼ ਹਮਹ ਹੀਲਤੇ ਦਰ ਗੁਜ਼ਸ਼ਤ
ਹਲਾਲ ਅਸਤ ਬੁਰਦਨ ਬ ਸ਼ਮਸ਼ੀਰ ਦਸਤ

'Chu kar az hameh hilate dar guzasht,
Halal ast burdan ba shamshir dast.'

["When all other options for solving a conflict have been exhausted, it is right to clench the sword."]

That verse is NOT in Panjabi, but in Persian, for the benefit of the Mughal emperor. Sikhism was a persecuted religion that survived generations of oppression by one of the super powers of the age.
The Sikhs are still there.

The Mughals? Not so much.

A lot credit goes to the sheer insane balsiness of the Nihang orders for that survival.

Bole so nihal; whoever says it, shall be happy.


Laggi sube di kacheri,
Chaare paase khade vairi;
Chote-chote bacheyan-ne par himmat na haari,
Chote-chote bacheyan-ne par himmat na haari.
Bole so nihal bol ke,
Nihan vich khad jange.
Gobind de lal subeya,
Samjhin na darr jaange,
Gobind de lal subeya!

Dada Guru Tegh Bahadur,
Kehnde jihnu Hind di chaadar;
Delhi jaa sees vaarea,
Pandita da dekh niradar.
Satgur jo paaye purne,
Ohiyo ajj parh jange.
Gobind de lal subeya,
Samjhin na darr jaange,
Gobind de lal subeya!

Dhan satgur kalgiya wala,
Khalsa panth sajaaya;
Chidiyan to baaj taraaye,
Gidharan nu sher banaya.
Putt ose peyo de soch,
Piche pab dhar jaange.
Gobind de lal subeya,
Samjhin na darr jaange,
Gobind de lal subeya!

Oh dhan Mata Gujri,
Pote apni jihne hathi ture;
Maut nu karan salama,
Ek duje to ho muhre.
Jaggi naa maa dadi da,
Roshan jagg kar jange.
Gobind de lal subeya,
Samjhin na darr jaange,
Gobind de lal subeya!

Rather than translating (which I would not do well), let me point the reader towards several key internet look-up criteria: Guru Gobind, whose sons Zorawar Singh and Fateh Singh were murdered by the Muslims for not renouncing their faith and converting to Islam; Guru Tegh Bahadur, who was also martyred by the Muslims.

Also look up the Japji, which is one of the foundations of their faith, composed by Guru Nanak.

Go and learn.


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


Like everyone else I occasionally use internet translation sites to make foreign texts comprehensible. It's an easy way out.
But by no means reliable.

Consider this entry, which was originally in English before it was thrown into the robot-translation hopper:


That, translated back into plain English, becomes this:

"Latakia tobacco is a specially prepared tobacco originating in Syrian port city of Latakia and named. Now the tobacco is mainly produced in Cyprus. It was originally the sun like other Turkish tobacco, and through the pine or oak fire, which gives it a strong, smoky flavor and pungent odor, even cured. Stronger than most people's tastes Smoke straight, it is used as a condiment or mixer (basic tobacco mixed with other tobacco, creating a fusion), especially in English, Balkan, and some American classics mix."

Machine translating yields some surprising stuff.
Not very useful stuff, just surprising.
Sometimes dense.

The incense-like perfume of Latakia tobacco.

"Laa taap gei aa yin tsou dik fan heung fung mei."

From the Chinese website "Pipe Village" (烟斗村 'yin dau chuen') comes a far clearer and more informative text:

拉塔基亞(Latakia)的產地主要有兩個:敘利亞(Syria)和塞浦路斯(Cyprus)。 Latakia 煙草的發現,純屬偶然:菸農把豐收烤煙草後一時用不完的煙草,掛在農舍的椽子上儲存,到了第二年,意外發現,煙草自然發酵後,風味非常獨特…… 據說,傳統的Latakia,是用駱駝糞作燃料,熏制熟成,再經發酵一季,收取後再加工(駱駝糞的傳說早已成歷史了,有時跟朋友提起有關駱駝糞的逸事,他們都用吃驚的眼神重新審視我手上的罐子,好像在說:這東西不要離我太近……,我卻一直想試試古代Latakia 的味道…… 其實,沒有什麼值得大驚小怪的,直到現在,不少農村還保留利用風乾了的牛糞做燃料的習慣,既環保,又經濟)。 Latakia 經日曬法(Sun-Cured)及烘烤法(Fire-Cured)處理熟成:菸葉經日曬後,再掛在用香木生火起的濃煙之中熏制(一般用橡木 (oak),松木 (pine),柏木 (cypress) 或桃金孃 (myrtle) 等),長達兩個月,直至菸葉變黑。使用不同的香木,煙草的風味也有相應的微妙差別。

Latakia 有股強烈的焚香風味,入口卻意外地溫和;燃燒冷慢(Cool Smoking),並在中段轉而低調。有人非常喜歡它,也有人厭惡它的味道(情況有點像熱帶果王-- 榴?)。 Latakia 可加強天然煙草調配的強度(Body)和深度(Depth),是一流的佐料煙草(Condiment Tobacco),英式調配必備。選用得愈多,整個調配就會愈濃烈(Latakia 的分量並不是越多越好的。有經驗的調煙師認為,40% 到45% 是上限-- 超過這個比例,其他成份煙草就會被其強烈的風味完全掩蓋掉了,從而失去調配應有的微妙性、複雜性,變得單調而無層次,嗆人口鼻。

[SOURCE: http://tutorial.pipevillage.org/tobac_latakia.htm. ]

Trust me, it's very lucid.

What's particularly good about the Pipe Village text is the inclusion of the English terms. Not for clarity so much as education, thus enabling the Chinese pipe smoker to communicate what he or she likes, and why, to tobacconists and tobacco mavens in the rest of the world.

What the text completely ellided over was 駱駝糞 ('lok to fan').
It means 'camel dung'. Dried camel dung is not used in the manufacture of Latakia (the Cypriots lack camels in any case), but out in the country districts peasants burn whatever material they can for fuel.
One can understand how the rumour got started.

橡木 ('jeung muk'), 松木 ('song muk'), 柏木 ('baak muk'), 桃金孃 ('tou kam neung').

One other thing that could bear an English appendation is 焚香風味 ('fan heung fung mei'): "an incense-like fragrance". Which describes nicely the contribution of terpeneols, phenols, and other creosotics to the drying leaves from the fires above which they are suspended.


For further reference, here are other useful terms from Pipevillage.

Black Cavendish: 黑板煙 ('haak paan yin'). Burley: 白肋煙 ('paak lei yin'). Cavendish: 腌板煙 ('yim paan yin, "pickled plank fume"). Cigar leaf: 雪茄葉 ('suet gaa yip'; "snow eggplant leaf"). Kentucky: 肯塔基 ('hang taap kei'; "permit pagoda foundation"). Maryland tobacco: 馬里蘭煙 ('maa lei lan yin'). Oriental leaf: 東方煙草 ('tung fong yin tsou'). Perique: 珀里克 ('paak lei kat'). Turkish tobacco: 土耳其煙 ('tou yi kei yin'). Virginia: 弗吉尼亞 ('fat gat nei aa').

Balkan mixture: 巴爾幹混合 ('baa yi gon wan hap').

Body: 質地薄厚 ('jat dei bok hou'). Complexity:;層次變化 ('chang chi pin faa'). Flavouring: 香精調味 ('heung cheng diu mei'). Room note: 室韻臭香 ('sat wan chau heung'). Strength: 劲道力量 ('king dou lik leung').

Leslie Ng, who created Pipe Village, has my gratitude for creating so splendid and useful a resource.


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

Friday, June 19, 2015


A woman living in Maryland received a note that expressed neighborly feelings of unease, probably by a loyal watcher of Fox News.

The note said this:

Dear resident of 4900 Kenwood Avenue, 

Your yard is becoming Relentlessly Gay!
Myself and others in the neighborhood ask that you Tone it Down. This is a Christian area and there are Children. 
Keep it up and I will be forced to call the Police on You! Your kind need to have respect for GOD.

A concerned Home Owner.

[End cite.]

I can just imagine the phone call to the authorities. It probably ends with the 911 operator sending out a squad armed with a large net and a straightjacket. Because, of course, calling the cops on a colourful garden is something only a complete loony would do.
A Fox-watching Christian.

I think everyone should make their yards 'Relentlessly Gay'. If I had a yard, I would be upping the gay quite considerably at this point. The rotten Halloween pumpkin would go, as would the rusty 1998 Dodge Neon on cinderblocks. Unless I decided that it would make a boffo planter if I painted it in rainbow colours and removed the roof.
Yes, potted pansies come to mind.

Just for the heck of it, a mural of butterflies on the side of the house. Because plain brick is depressing.

I just don't know. What, exactly, is relentlessly gay?  I need style pointers from my readers, because not being gay myself -- generally speaking fairly happy, yes, but not gay -- there are things that might not project the right balance of delirium, tie-dye, and tight leather decor.

Maybe I need more ABBA in my life.
I'm conflicted about that.

I get the impression that a Christian garden is a rather depressing place, where people are unhappy and go to kill themselves.
Little children walk by and shudder.
The evil man lives there!

Are there different Christian denominations of garden?

Or is a Christian garden a dreary amalgam of clichés?

I'm thinking a Christian garden must have a statue of the Virgin Mary, a cross,  the ten commandments posted in a prominent place, a noose hanging from a tree, as well as a heretic-sized barbecue pit.
Plus poison ivy. Lots of poison ivy.

If I ever have a garden, I will put a high wall around it, so that the Christian children cannot see my happy place. Screw them.

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

Thursday, June 18, 2015


It can't be terrorism, no Muslims where involved. That is the inescapable conclusion one must draw from the South Carolina Church shooting.

Repeat: not terrorism; the perpetrator was a clean-shaven Anglo.

Which probably means Protestant. And white American.

One of us. A nice upstanding Republican.

Again, not a terrorist.

I fully expect FOX News to either ignore the crime, OR find a way to blame the victims, who are black, and therefore either thugs or guilty of a lack of leadership, although not presently rioting.

They deserved it; we don't know why yet, but we'll find out. Investigative journalism will turn up a reason.

Some upstanding talking head (or Republican Presidential candidate) will decry their weak moral fibre, as well as the absence of a strong black voice advising them on when not to riot -- being black in America means knowing when to abstain from looting, or overturning copcars, or setting shit on fire -- and quantify the overall irrelevance.

The shooter is, no doubt, a loner. Not at all representative of whites in general. Just a random crazy person with a troubled childhood.

Probably the sweetest kid growing up.

No way he represents us.

I voted for Obama.


NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
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Wednesday, June 17, 2015


Very recently I described the pained reaction of an elderly Chinese lady on public transit to the evocative fragrance of a gentleman who is a self-confessed pipe and cigar afficionado.
The background to this is that San Francisco buses (aka 'Muni') offer a rich spectrum of personality types in an atmosphere of drang and rush, much like the last helicopter out of Saigon on a sultry April evening, when the Vietcong are closing in and all available seating is taken.
The warmth of a fully stocked cow-pasture, with the fermentation of a refuse heap being turned into nice wholesome compost.
A panoply of stimuli for the nose and throat, as well as the ear and eye.
In many ways a joyous smorgasbord of experience.
The full range of sensation.
An adventure!

"I had taken a seat next to a little old Cantonese lady, who promptly clapped her hand to her wee nose to shield herself from the phenomenal pong.
Not only am I a white person, but I'm a smoker (pipes and cigarillos), and therefore more than average fragrant. She looked quite sick."
End quote.


Oh poor auntie! White dude all stinky-stinky la?
Please you not so worry, he die soon!
Then everything good.

This morning that essay elicited a comment from a reader.

Someone who identifies as 'I smell good!' said:
"But white people are a bad smelling lot! Large number of them have too active sweat glands, and bacteria! We Chinese do not have armpit bacteria, and bacause that are not so.
You, a smoker, must be the most nasty thing auntie encountered that day. You should be sorry. Stinky man. Confess!"
[End cite.]

But what more should I confess? I already admitted that I enjoy fine tobacco products. Which, truth be told, should remind the smeller of a hint of Aramis, or perhaps Sandalwood Fragrance for Men. A discreet and ever so evocative whisper, suited to a well-stocked library, a treasured book-room, the scarce-used study on the third floor of hotel out in the country side where you stayed one summer when you were eleven, or the now-deserted office of a favourite high school teacher who recently retired.

Perhaps rather than indulging in a strong Virginia flake that day, I should have instead smoked a Latakia blend, which would have cloaked me with a faint hint of the exotic. Something that reminded auntie of her long-gone childhood, when Aloes wood incense was shipped from the pier jutting out into Belcher Bay, during the days of sailing ships and paddle wheel ferries.
Resinous, alluring, and calming to the soul.
When Hong Kong was still "new".

The heat reflected from the water makes the hills beyond Kowloon shimmer, and a multitude of reflected sparkles midst the drifting foam stimulate the girlish imagination. There, THERE, is where the body of the boy emperor washed ashore seven and half centuries ago, near Lantau Island. Such a sad event, utterly heartbreaking! The tragic end of a dynasty.
That banyan over there was a mere sapling then.
It is now old, so old.

Maybe something with Perique?

A sharp vegetal odour, redolent of earth and rice paddies and green green tamarind trees ... sharp sunlight, and stark shadows in the shrubbery.
Somewhere there's splashing sound; the source not seen.
An egret takes wing.

I'm so sorry, I didn't know she was your auntie.
She looked older than Jayzus.
Totally antique.

I'm surprised her delicate little proboscis still works so well.


She would have loved me yesterday. First I smoked some Sullivan Powell Gentleman's Mixture (full Latakia), then Dunhill's Baby's Bottom (smooth, mellow, resinous), two different Balkan Blends (one of my own devising), a cigar-leaf blend with a touch of Oriental tobacco (yes, another of my own concoctions), followed by a fairly standard Balkan.

During the latter part of the day I was in the presence of numerous cigar smokers. Liga Privada No. 9 and Undercrown were represented -- both Nicaraguan, and consequenty full-bodied and spicy -- and Andrew on the veranda indulged himself with an Arturo Fuente Rosado. Mario enjoyed a Davidoff, while David and Riley ( a golden retriever) were at their usual table with something illicit shipped in from overseas: Cohiba Siglo VI.
Those canary yellow aluminum tubes looked so tempting!
Everyone was cheerful and had a very good time.
Your auntie would have loved it.

I ended the day with cigarillos.
Panter, made in Holland.

Yes, later today I shall head over to Chinatown again. I need to visit my bank (華美銀行), after which I shall have a snackipoo (可以一個菠蘿包,話唔定) and some milk-tea (港式奶茶, 香香滑滑啲).
And then, naturally, a pipe-full of tobacco.
Probably Greg Pease's Sixpence.
It smells very nice.

I strongly suspect that I've met miss 'I-smell-good', but for the life of me cannot recall who it might be. Probably a non-smoker.


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


One cannot smoke in public in Hong Kong. It is expressly forbidden in workplaces, restaurants, coffee shops, cha-chanteng, public transit, public toilets, cinemas, and karaoke joints.
Beaches, shopping malls, and whiskey dives are also off-limits.
One can get a nasty massage, but not smoke during.
Abuse wait-staff, but not while smoking.
Create a public disturbance.
When not smoking.

Lighting up a smoke is a far worse moral failure than being a corrupt politician, obnoxious mainland visitor, drunken white tourist, or petty gangster acting brutal on the bus.

In some ways, Hong Kong mirrors San Francisco.

With ONE major difference.

Cigar lounges!

營業時間:900 – 1800。
The Pacific Cigar Company Limited
21/F Guangdong Investment Tower.
148 Connaught Road, Central, Hong Kong.
Hours: 9:00 am – 6:00 pm

營業時間:逢星期一至六1300 – 2200; 星期日 1300-1800。
Ever Cigars Ltd.
Mongkok branch:
Pakpolee Commercial Centre, 22nd floor, suite 2.
1A Sai Yeung Choi Street, Mong Kok, Kowloon, Hong Kong.
Hours: 1:00 pm - 10:00 pm; Sundays 1:00 - 6:00 pm
香港,銅鑼灣,軒尼詩道472號,南業大廈2樓,208, 209室。
營業時間:逢星期一至五1900 – 2200; 星期六及日休息。
Causeway Bay branch:
South Industrial Building, 2nd Floor Room 208, 209
472 Hennessy Road, Causeway Bay, Hong Kong,
Hours: 7:00 pm - 10:00 pm; closed Saturday and Sunday.

There are also a number of venues where Davidoff cigars are sold, as well as nightclubs where they just don't care. And the following are worthy of note:

The Humidor @ L'Etage
Macau Yat Yuen Centre
523-527 Hennessy Road, Hong Kong

Red Chamber Cigar Divan
Shop M1, Mezzaine Floor, Peddar Building,
12 Peddar street, Central, Hong Kong

Cohiba Divan
Mandarin Hotel, Shop G6, East Lobby,
5 Connaught Road, Central, Hong Kong

La Casa del Habano Cigar Lounge
Sheraton Hong Kong Hotel & Towers,
20 Nathan Road, Kowloon, Hong Kong

The places listed above are cigar shops and lounges, where snobbishness and membership are de rigeur. The free-range pipe smoker is largely a maverick, and not entirely welcome anywhere.


So much for the dark side. What about tobacco?

The Davidoff shop at the Peninsula sells pipe tobacco, mostly Davidoff and Peterson. Wing On Department Store sells Peterson tobaccos. For the rest, it's a crapshoot. Tins of Dunhill are available here and there.
Plus W.Ø Larsen pibetobakker.

If you are in Shek Kip Mei (石硤尾), you might want to investigate Sun Wah Compradore (新華辦館).

Shek Kip Mei Estate Block 20, 101 Woh Chai Street,
Shek Kip Mei, Kowloon, Hong Kong.

They carry a few pipes and tobaccos, in addition to other goods.
Please report back to me, as I have never patronized them.
I heard there was a nascent pipe club in Shatin.
But it may have been stillborn.

The term 辦館 ('paan gun') means a grocery, and is often applied to the convenience stores in office buildings, by the way. Drinks, snacks, insta-noodle, liquor (including Hennesy and Remi Martin), six-packs, sauces, sausages, pickles, and smokers requisites.

Do you want some fancy hooch with your stink-weed?
Perhaps a packet of Kwon Miu Rice Noodle?
I know, beer! You want beer!

Upon reconsideration, only for pipe smokers is the situation pretty miserable. But for cigar smokers, Hong Kong is a little slice of all-right. There are more than sufficient venues that cater to their depravity, damn them, but probably not a single shop that caries Rattray's blends, or Samuel Gawith. Not even the Esoterica line of products!
Sometimes life is rather a disaster.

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Tuesday, June 16, 2015


That was the succinct judgement of my apartment mate, while watching a bunch of brick-headed blondes on Long Island arguing with each other. While I gladly agree -- rich housewives of Stuckupistan are, in my mind, repulsive -- it was a television show that she had chosen to watch.
Her decision. Not mine.

"These are some of the ugliest women on the planet! And why do these hos all look like they have the same bottle of blonde? Somebody, slap them!"

I am personally not at all vested in the melodramatic misbehaviour of very white cows who have far too much money. Or very black cows with the same ailment ("Atlanta").
I do not need a refresher course on how to act like a vicious superficial bitch. Primarily because, being a middle aged white man living in San Francisco, I have learned from drag-queens how to do that.
They don't mind me even though I'm straight.
I appreciate their senses of style.

Still haven't mastered the phrase "ooh, snap!", but I'm working on it.
It sounds better if you're wearing stiletto heels, though.
There's much more existential pain then.
Your feet are screaming.

Stiletto heels make a difference.

Personally, I feel that no woman with any sense at all should wear stiletto heels. Bad for the back, bad for the knees. It's torture.

I have to ask, what are YOU wearing while reading this?

Surely you aren't wearing high heels, are you?

Maybe you have nothing on?

Naked is fine.

I often imagine my readers to be naked as jaybirds. It makes writing this blog a rewarding experience.

Heels are bad.

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The problem with animals is that they operate on a different reality than we do. Animals have scant sense of time, and a set of values that bear little relation to the humans with whom they associate.

There you are, barely waking up and staring at the ceiling, when you become aware of a cat bottom very near your face. Kitty decided that your chest was a great place to take a nap. And the slow puffs of warm breath from your nostrils were beyond a doubt the perfect note of comfort. But your morning breath reminds her of a swamp, so she positioned herself facing the other way.

At this point, like any normal person, you think of coffee.
Dark, strong, bitter. Hot and steaming.
And you get up.

A cat person, on the other hand, will just lie there passively, using gentle suggestions in an attempt to get the damned feline to leave. "Momma's gotta go to work, Pudding, don't you think you should sleep somewhere else?" "Oh please get up, Banana, I'll fix you yummie nummies!" "It's already late, Puffikins, I'm going to miss the bus." "Hear that, Oodlywoodle, that's my boss wondering where I am...."
"I'm probably gonna get fired this time."

I am not a cat person, and I have no animal in my apartment.

If there were, I'd name him something sensible.

The name 'Roger' sounds okay.

"Roger, get your ass outta my face NOW!"

I cannot help think that Ozzie the Weasel, in the video clip below, at some point felt keen sadness when his human picked him up and deposited him in his cage, so that work could be done.
He still wanted to play!


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d2CTVqt2wxU
Youtube user: Frisco68.]

I've watched that youtube film several times over the past year. I just won't get enough of that rambunctious fur-sausage! That, dear readers, is an adorable beast. Lovable, and ferocious. As well as cute.
I am not ashamed to admit it.

The hand will eventually realize that Ozzie needs to be put somewhere else, if only so that the thumb and his digital friends can actually use the various electronic devices.

How sad.

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Several years ago I had a coworker down the peninsula who would leave work related voicemails on people's answering machines all weekend...