Sunday, September 30, 2018


There was a snake at work. I caught it and eventually released it on the slope behind the garbage cans where there are twigs, old leaves, scrub brush, and minor moist spots. And, one hopes, friends, relatives, and food.
This was after I found out that my coworker is remarkably creeped out by snakes. To the point where he kept a good thirty feet away.

The animal was cute and non-threatening.

In fact, seeing as I was hovering over the serpent, in its empty cigar box with the little saucer of water, our little scaly friend was probably quite as scared of me so nearby, as Hector was of it from across the room.

A juvenile Pacific ring-necked snake. Scarcely ten or twelve inches long. When startled, Pacific ring-necked snakes wriggle and curl, cork-screw like, showing off the brilliant flame hue of their undersides.
Diadophis punctatus amabilis.

I found it quite charming.
Lovable, even.

When I carried it outside it was in the palm of my hand, so that whatever else happened it would at least have some warmth.

From Wikipedia: "Ring-necked snakes are secretive, nocturnal snakes, so are rarely seen during the day time. They are slightly venomous, but their nonaggressive nature and small, rear-facing fangs pose little threat to humans who wish to handle them. They are best known for their unique defense posture of curling up their tails, exposing their bright red-orange posterior, ventral surface when threatened."
End cite.

Because of this, I now know what Duvernoy's Gland is.
Which is a fascinating little tidbit of information.

All this gave me a warm happy feeling.
That's not common at work.
It was a good day.

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In a Twilight-Zonish video that she recorded with her cell-phone, Lindsay Lohan attempted to kidnap children in Russia and got pushed or punched by their mother. Why she allowed the clip onto the internet is unclear.
But she's an important person, so obviously it must be done.
What's clear is that Russia is not good for her mind.
The drugs are bad, the vodka is toxic.
Her mind is fragile.

One of the people I see regularly finally got rid of his cell-phone, because they were tracking him with it. Tin Foil Hat Stevie knows too much about the Russians and the Clinton Foundation planning evil in Marin, and does not wish to end up killed, like Robin Williams. By the Russians and Clintons.
He is too important.

Several people in the lounge probably sympathize. With the television on full blast showing a college game yesterday, they were intently looking at their cell-phones, in silent and worshipful contemplation.
Possibly tracking Tin Foil Hat Stevie.
As well as Lindsay Lohan.

I myself do not have a cell-phone. Consequently Lindsay Lohan is rather uninteresting to me, except when she's tweaked out of her mind in Russia in the middle of the night, having drunk to much and drugged herself. And I do not track Tin Foil Hat Stevie. He shows up sometimes, and infests the parking lot, gibbering or twitching.
Cell-phones bring trouble.
Crazy people.

None of them are important.

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Saturday, September 29, 2018


Very few black guys at a job interview will boast that they like beer in an angry and aggrieved way. Red-faced, weeping, belligerent. Black guys aren't crazy and entitled enough to think that that is in any way appropriate behaviour when you are facing your prospective employers, however Brett Kavanaugh isn't black. Not quite sure what he is. A member of an ethnic group that might disavow him, because he's too old at this point to slap sense into. But anyway he likes beer. He loves beer. Beer and him are like so! That was one of the things Thursday's soap opera made clear, along with the fact that Lindsey Graham is a buffoon and mentally unstable.

The television was on at work on Thursday, so I now know how much some republicans like beer, oh boy! And Lindsey Graham needs to be medicated.


Today, when I came home, my apartment mate was in her jammies, having done nothing all day except nap, eat, and watch point by point analyses of Thursday's events. And read all about it from several angles on the internet. From which she logically deduces that Kavanaugh is skeevy as all git-out,
the republicans are evil, opportunistic, and out of their minds.
And Don Lemon is a disturbingly good looking man.
A very attractive and likable dude.

Unlike Kavanaugh, who comes off as a mean vindictive bastard.
There was considerably more, all very carefully nuanced.
She has studied and understood the material.

We discussed it while I fixed myself dinner.

She is clearly more balanced and rational about all this than Kavanaugh and Graham, who between them proved that beer and medication need a carefully calibrated judgment of dosages, especially during the daylight hours, and when there is a television audience.

Go ahead, watch Kavanaugh again.

"Everybody is SO unfair, I deserve this job, I like beer, sniff sniff, I got into Yale, sniff, my little daughter prayes for the souls of sinners, my lovely wife, beer, many women actually like me, why are you being so mean to me, sniff sniff sniff, I really like beer, don't you like beer, there's something wrong with you, I worked so hard, I go to church, every body likes beer, the Clintons, conspiracy, mean, sniff sniff beer, first in my class, beer. Sniff sniff."

"Beer, sniff, my family has been through hell, you don't understand, beer, sniff sniff sniff, all boys, I respect women, beer, beer. You have unleashed the whirlwind, boy are you going to be sorry! Beer! Sniff sniff sniff."

"The Democrats, waa! The Clintons, waa! The media!"
"Revenge, for years and years!"

I am a puritan; I never drink beer during lunch.

Yay, beer!

Post Scriptum: Until today, I had no idea who Don Lemon was, as I almost never watch news programmes, preferring instead to visit Reuters, AP, the BBC website, several Dutch and German newspapers, and both the Washington Post and the New York Times.

Lindsey Graham has so many screws loose that he rattles.
Don Lemon is indeed rather good looking.
Kavanaugh acts like an angry rat.

And really likes beer.

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Friday, September 28, 2018


Received from a friend on the internet, and pasted here with permission.

An antidote to previously posted nonsense

Sharing this post written by a good friend, which I have strongly urged him to publish. What follows is a list of 20 critical lies Kavanaugh told under oath during yesterday's hearing. I will add that my friend attended a very elite private high school in the Northeastern US in the early 1980s and knows a great deal about the sort of entitled culture from which Kavanaugh sprang. 
Feel free to copy and repost.

"Christine Blasey Ford told the truth about Donald's Trumps Supreme Court judge nominee Brett Kavanaugh."

Everything was credible about her testimony. Everyone believed everything about her testimony, except the discredited notion that she ID'd the wrong guy. Which has been discredited if you keep reading.

Judged Kavanaugh lied and lied. Not only should he be defeated for the Supreme Court nomination, but he should be impeached from the bench. I have counted at least 30 lies. Her? Zero lies. Unlike her, almost everything he says strains credulity.

The American Bar Association, which strongly endorsed Kavanaugh, tonight called for a delay in the proceedings and a full investigation, effectively suspending its endorsement.

Here are some of the major lies that Kavanaugh has told:

1. He lied about Devil's Triangle. A Devil's Triangle is two different kinds of sexual acts, involving either a threesome, or three types of sexual intercourse with one woman in one night. It is not a drinking game. He lied about this several times and his classmates have called him out.

2. He lied about "bouf," which refers to anal intercourse, and not flatulence. He doubled down on this lie several times during testimony.

3. He lied about "Renata Alumnius." That referred to him going on a date with the purported class "slut." It was not about being her friend (and she recently said she was horrified by his yearbook references.) His testimony directly contradicts a poem about Renata written by one of his close friends found in the same yearbook he refers to himself as a Renata Alumnius, portraying Renata as a cheap and sleazy date.

4. He lied that the "Beach Week Ralph Club," which refers to vomiting from drinking at a traditional beach week (which all the schools around here have--we all know the expression). He lied and said it referred to his weak stomach.

5. He lied under oath about not watching Ford's testimony. Today. Witnesses saw him watching it. The Wall Street Journal reported he was watching it with others in the Senate's Dirksen Office Building. There are many press stories on this.

6. He lied about not knowing about stolen emails from the Democratic members of the judicial committee. He knew the emails were stolen and confirmed it in the emails the Judicial Committee republicans tried to suppress. The Washington Post gave him three pinocchios for this lie.

7. He lied about witnesses supporting his claims. They did not support his claims as he characterized their testimony. They generally supplied brief statements through lawyers about not remembering the party. This was no testimony. This was no independent investigation.

8. More specifically, Ford and Kavanaugh's mutual friend Leland Kaiser says while she does not remember that party, but she believes everything her friend Ford said about it. She has stated this to the press and it came up in testimony today.

9. Kavanaugh lied about his drinking. He drank a lot in the last year of high school and college (and several witnesses say he drank a lot for years afterwards). Several friends of mine who specialize in alcoholism said he exhibited signs of having drunk before this hearing. He was referred to by his college roommate as a sloppy and belligerent drunk. We saw glimpses of that belligerence today. Dozens of his contemporaries have confirmed how aggressive he becomes with drinking.

10. He lied that never drunk on weekdays in the summer of 1982. In his own calendar, he referred to "skis," which he admitted refer to "brewskis," with Mark and PJ on Thursday July 1 in a calendar entry that matches closely Ford's account. Most of the people in that list were the same mentioned by Ford in her testimony. He drank. On that Thursday night. After working out.

11. He lied about Judge not remembering what happened. Six weeks after the incident, probably mid-August 1982, Ford reported seeing Judge at the Potomac Safeway in River Road near where we live. Local newspapers have confirmed that Judge worked there at the time Ford said. No one has refuted her testimony that Judge was "nervous" and had "turned white." The committee is still refusing to interview or depose or subpoena Judge.

12. He lied that "100 kegs or bust" did not indicate a lot of drinking in 1982-3. He was part of a group endeavoring to drink 100 kegs that year, and his best friend became a serious alcoholic and admitted to sexual assault resembling this assault during that period to his girlfriend. His girlfriend was also not deposed by the committee.

13. He lied about Trump in the first line of his first press conference as nominee. He lied about Trump doing more vetting than for any other Supreme Court nominee in modern history. In fact, Trump vetted much much less than other modern President's, admittedly working from short lists provided by two conservative think tanks, which he announced in advance he would limit his choice to. Several books have confirmed that Trump spent little time on the vetting.

14. He lied that he is "open to any investigation." He is not and is actively participating in blocking the testimony of eye witness Mark Judge, his girlfiend, and other participants. Judge is hiding out in a beach house on the eastern shore and Judge being interviewed by the FBI. Kavanaugh is actively involved in strategizing about evidence suppression, at all day strategy meetings with Trump's lawyers.

15. He lied about the nature of Mark's book. He said that both it was part of his therapy and coming clean as an alcoholic and drug addict, and called the book "fictional." It can't be both a testimonial of a recovering alcoholic and fictional at the same time.

16. He refuses to answer the question again and again about whether or not there should be an investigation and whether or not his friend Mark Judge should be questioned, further belying that he is "open to investigation."

17. He is lying about whether he was the "Bart O'Kavanaugh" in Mark Judge's book. He knows the drunken and vomiting "O'Kavanaugh" is him.

18. He is lying about never having forgot anything about the night after a night of drinking. There are several testimonials from classmates to this effect.

19. He is lying that there is a conspiracy against him and that Ford's charges are trumped up and part of that conspiracy. The best evidence of no conspiracy is how his high school classmate Gorsuch--they were one year about apart at Georgetown Prep--was subject to no such conspiracy, in confirmation hearings just months ago. Gorsuch is honorable. Judge is lying.

20. Kavanaugh supporter Whelan helped concoct the story of other men taking credit for assaulting Ford. Whelan has deleted all of his tweets after being challenged on the completely bogus stories he was advancing by his colleagues. The dissembling tweets are gone.

Senator Blumenthal quoted the legal principle "Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus, which is a legal principle that dictates jurors can rule a witness to be false in everything if he says one thing that is not true."

If you believe any of the above is correct, you have to come to the conclusion that Kavanaugh is lying and should not be confirmed.

This is not "he said, she said." This is "she said, he shouted and dissembled and prevented his friend from testifying." Such testimony is the norm in American politics. Until now.

Kavanaugh has disqualified himself as a seeker of truth who honors the law and acts honorably. He should not be on the Supreme Court, judging the veracity of others. He should not be a judge. Maybe a partisan lawyer, as he has been in past administrations, but not a Supreme Court Justice."

[End cite.]

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One of yesterday's brightest moments, amid the hurley burley of fat headed privileged outrage over one of those people bringing up something that happened so long ago and was just boyish playfulness anyway, was the gentleman who talked of something other than what was on teevee.
I always appreciate it when there are visitors like that.
Most days it's just sports and politics.
Opinionated, uninformed.

As, naturally, one would expect from any group, but particularly those folks. Privilege and hard work got them where they are, plus caucasianity and the right friends. Surely they are justified about everything?

It's a group dynamic, and just like any herd they will nip savagely at the heels of the least representative cow, till at last he falls over and his putrefying carcass pollutes the communal watering hole.

Sorry, that metaphor was perfectly beastly.

Rabid bovine hyenas.

The gentleman who talked of "something other" plans to retire in a few years, and then pursue his hobby of prospecting and panning for nuggets up in the foothills, far away from civilization. It's an idea that intellectually appeals to me, along with the related concept of withdrawing to a shack in the delta, sitting on my porch, and shooting varmints and tourists.

"Don't go there, grampa Atboth is settin' in his rocking chair smoking a corncob pipe with his shotgun on his lap."

Anyone wearing a Planet Hollywood tee-shirt doesn't get a warning shot.
Same goes for baseball caps and sports jerseys.

The only fly that arose in the ointment of his glowing description was the smell of his pipe tobacco, that being a cherry-flavoured abortion.

I fiercely disapprove of aromatic tobaccos, advocating instead that you should smoke a nice clean product, like a Virginia and Perique blend or an old-fashioned Latakia mixture. And I have to doubt that the gold miners he seeks to emulate ever touched that ghastly perfumed shite.

Cherry Cavendish is the stench of the portal to hell.

But, seeing as the Marin County supervisors wish to ban all sweetened tobaccos because of the children, as well as menthol cigarettes because too many black people(*) smoke them, I couldn't call him on his heresy.
Go ahead, huff that crap. You are an example for the kids!
All the little tykes will emulate you.

The time is not far off when children will ONLY find solidly stodgy pipe tobaccos available to them, and they'll be enjoying Capstan, Three Nuns, and Arango's Superior Balkan (an exceptionally fine full Latakia blend, similar to what college boys smoked back in the golden age).
And I, personally, look forward to that day.
Nothing but clean tobacco!

Just imagine all those kids sporting tweed coats and fine briars!
Neglecting team sports in favour of civilized norms.
As well as avoiding beer, obviously.
Just tea and tobacco.

An ideal world. Pity that tobacco costs so much nowadays, though. Their parents will just have to make sure their weekly allowances are substantial enough to cover the twenty or thirty dollars it will take to keep them supplied with Esoterica's Margate or Germain's Latakia Flake, plus pipe cleaners, for seven days. I remember when I was a teenager that making that precious tin of tobacco stretch till next my allowance was always an iffy struggle.
More than anything, it taught me the value of money.
Inculcated a temperate attitude.
And sound judgment.

Teenagers should not drink beer or smoke Vanilla-Strudel, obviously.
Pumpkin Spice Cavendish and Bright Honey Ribbon are equally nasty.
That way lies madness plus candy coffee at hip chains with wifi.
And god forbid, herbal fruity teas.

(*) In educated Marin, ANY black people are too many.
A reason to ban menthol cigarettes!


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Thursday, September 27, 2018


The television was on the room where the cigar smokers congregate for the entire day. Consequently, I got to hear a whiny entitled little bitch named Kavanaugh throw a trantrum and the talking rodents from Fox discoursing, for several hours. Plus Lindsey Graham unloading a pile of horse manure.

As you would guess, most of the cigar smokers are entitled too. And they live in their own cocoon worlds. So you know which direction their commentary went.

I no longer wish to hear about Kavanaugh.

But henceforth I'll refer to those folks, whenever it is necessary to talk to them, individually and collectively as 'Kavanaugh'. It's shorter, sweeter, and infinitely nastier, than telling them "listen up, you repulsive hosebag".

Still, in act of kindness that they did nothing to deserve, I did not send Little White Nipple Dude back there to converse with them when he came in.
We haven't seen him for several months, almost half a year.
I had thought that maybe his parents drowned him.
Or had him restrained and committed.
Perhaps Valiumated.

Concerning Lindsey Graham, this:

"He’s corrupted by ambition, corrupted by politics. To see him corrupted by the Trump era, to see him become sycophantic, to see him become dishonest and angry and sneering ..... "

------Steve Schmidt

The term sniveling opportunist comes to mind.
A convert to the Trumpite cause.

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Funny story: the dude who four years ago tweeted that we needed a president who wasn't a laughing stock went to the United Nations the other day, and the entire room laughed at him. Yes, Donny, they were laughing AT you. Because you are an idiot and a clown. Reality smacked you in the puss, eh. Pity it hasn't hit your fans yet, but they are much like you.

Plus you know what they say about virgins in red states, don't you?

No wonder they defend rapists and child molesters.

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Wednesday, September 26, 2018


As a very temperate man, I disapprove of over indulgence. And that young short woman should not have drunk so much. She lost control of her innards in the bathroom (twice), and dozed in fitful vomitous slumber outside for at least half an hour, while her companions cleaned her up.

When a woman is that small, and unused to drinking, it falls to her coworkers and friends to NOT encourage further imbibing. Do not force, or even seemingly approve of, her having any more liquor.
She's tiny. Just one cocktail is it.
Damned yuppies.

I hope you got her home.

Other than that, it was a splendid evening.
Despite really atrocious singing.
And crazy people.

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Tuesday, September 25, 2018


As an American, it gives me great pleasure that there is a country that is more hated than the United States. Sweden. And it is indeed a beastly place, filled with unwashed bandy-legged barbarians who eat plankfish, mayo, and seal fat ice cream. Constipation is a national problem.
The weather is pretty damned awful too.
Their movies are about suicide.
And they invented Abba.

As you can see, there is plenty there to hate.

For the benefit of Americans visiting civilized places, because we are easy to confuse with Swedes, here are some useful phrases you absolutely should know when going abroad:

Wǒ bùshì ruìdiǎn rén, wǒ shì jiānádà rén.
["I am not a Swede, I am Canadian."]

Nà bùshì wǒ de cháiyú.
["That is NOT my stokfisk!"]

Wǒ měitiān dū xǐzǎo.
["I take a shower every day."]

These alone guarantee humane treatment and edible food. By clarifying these 3 points you have set the minds of your interlocutors at ease, and as long as you don't get stinko drunk like the English or smell bad like the French, they'll assume that you do indeed have some civility.

Above all, do NOT request meatballs.
That is ab initio suspect.

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If the question was whether the president would take 'America First' to the United Nations, the answer is 'yes'. What he said today at the Generally Assembly was belligerent and pugnacious, and, in many ways, not what one would expect of an American leader. This was not bridge-building or diplomacy, this was a loud Yanqui-Qaddafiesque extravaganza.

Leavened, of course, by laughter at his achievement boast.

Essentially, we are withdrawing from the world.

And we are great, just great!

This will be wholeheartedly cheered by his fans in the heartland and Israel, plus Russia and China, but almost anywhere else this is not exactly boffo.

Please note that when Trump says "we", he means himself, and refers largely to his imaginary reality. Which is "great news for our citizens".

All of "our homelands are like nowhere else on earth". Now, as an American of Netherlandish culture living at the extreme western edge of civilization (San Francisco, California), several countries look absolutely identical.
All of Scandinavia is largely fairies, trolls, and goblins, the East Bloc is fundamentally undifferentiated (it's all "Greater Lithuania" anyway) despite some animosities. And no offense, but the Arab countries all look alike.
Latin America? Brazil versus the Spanish speakers.
They all play soccer very well.

"Additional sanctions will resume November Fifth, and more will follow."

In his speech special excoration was reserved for Iran, which he blamed for every woe in the region, neatly ignoring the funding from Saudi Arabia and the Gulf States for Isis and extremism in Europe.

"The Region's Agenda -- not good!"

My sympathies are with Iranian President Hassan Rouhani, because talking to an idiot is well nigh impossible.

His speech was not as rambling as one would expect from a successor to Muammar Qaddafi, but the bluster was yuge. Remarkably, he didn't sound as mushmouthed as he usually does, and there were enough commas and periods to show that someone else wrote much of his speech (Bolton, very likely, with some Pence, and a smidge of Conway). There were even some rhetorical semicolons! Kudos! The teleprompter was not visible.
And the medication was at just the right dosage.

So the big questions are: Does he know what he said?
Can he intelligently discuss any part of it?
How long was he trained?

He said "not good" twice. The second time was when he lambasted Opec, many of whose members are intrinsically linked to our military and support our posture overseas. 'Not good' is one of his signature phrases.

International court (no), great achievements, Isis, Iraq, Iran, Socialism, Jerusalem, Opec, Germany, drug gangs, immigration, more socialism, Venezuala, Cuban sponsors, misery and oppression, democracy, even more sanctions, hard look at U. S. foreign assistance. And yet another attack on our allies, which are mostly Western Europe and Japan, over money, plus no more than twenty five percent of the United Nations Peacekeeping budget, but only if we feel like it.

Peace without fear, hope without despair.
And security, without apology.

America, America, America.
And so forth, and so on.

It ended on ten minutes of high-flown repetitiveness.

I listened to all of it, twice. Several parts repeatedly.
That's time I will never get back.

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This past week we learned far too much about the reproductive organs of powerful people. The president's thingy looks like a mushroom cartoon character, his pick for supreme court has a thingy that when put in someone else's face is repulsive and rubbery, and Mitch McConnell is one.
Okay, 'nuff said. Republicans.

In today's America you can get away with almost anything if you are white and privileged.

My opinion of the cigar-smokers at work is at a very low ebb.
For the past few days they've been worse than usual.
Something which should not surprise you.

Today is my Saturday, and I should be fully recovered by Thursday, when the Republican Party will have rammed through approval of a sniveling prep-school sex-offender whom they trust, because whoa Nelly do they have the goods on him and he's adept at kissing all the right behinds.
Plus he's gotten better since his school years, honest!

If I win the lottery, I too will be white and privileged.

And if that happens, I'm still not visiting most of the country, because in all honesty those people and their moral standards are not up to snuff. Their religious people, law officers, and civil authorities cannot be trusted.
They keep voting for swine, and their tastes are bestial.
They are Fox Broadcasting's chosen people.

I blame Bourbon and Christianity for this.
Plus the shitty beer y'all drink.
And American football.

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Monday, September 24, 2018


This will almost certainly come back to haunt me. I just cannot stop eating this, it is the most delicious rendition of Portuguese Chicken Rice that I have ever made. Rice, chicken, potato, curry paste and a splash of coconut milk, chilies, ginger. Touch of nutmeg, a little extra ground pre-toasted cumin.
Olive oil, cast-iron skillet.

Sprinkle of grated cheese melted on top.

It is yummy.

['Pou gwok gai faan']

There was no fatty Portuguese sausage to add, and I scrimped a bit on the cheese. Plus in its native environment at this time of year there might be a typhoon outside, or threatening to blow in, or just passed. San Francisco does not get typhoons, however.

And we're colder; our temperature is in the fifties.
Theirs, low to mid eighties.

Other factors that come into play are the absence of hot strong milk-tea, or twenty stories of bamboo scaffolding to climb after finishing my meal.
Even if there were such scaffolding, I would not climb it.

Of course I cannot do so now in any case.
I actually feel like waddling.
A bit too full.

I should go out for a post-dinner smoke in a while.
But first, a cup of strong coffee.
And a short nap.

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Probably the best thing to do while drinking your morning coffee, when both social media and the news sites tell you the world is utterly vile, is to listen to military music. My choice this morning was the Königgrätzer Marsch. No, it is not a Nazi tune, though most people remember it from that scene in Indiana Jones where books are being tossed onto a bonfire in Berlin.

Like that part in Blackhawk Down which used The Minstrel Boy, a famous pairing of a song with laden visuals, it contributed to a narrative.
That was tale-telling. Fiction.

The Königgrätzer was written two generations before the National Socialists came to power.

I should mention that it is indeed one of the limited number of musical pieces that middle America's basement dwelling buttock hats know, the others frequently being Dixie and The Yellow Rose of Texas.
Sometimes there are a few more airs.
Often considerably less.

After the election, the Horst Wessel Lied had a brief resurgence in popularity, until those people realized that it was all in German, and therefore too complicated and foreign for them to memorize.

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At one thirty in the morning the only sound is a cricket in the air well. While warming up some water for a spot of tea and smoking a cigarillo it was clearly audible, but from the teevee room it cannot be heard. Normally I associate that chirping with warmer times, not with the somewhat chilly night time temperature that we have now. It is loud and hopeful.
Some years I don't hear that sound at all.
I did not expect it this Autumn.
It's cold outside.

Last year the temperatures in San Francisco at this time were oppressive, the heat lasted well into October, and even long after dark it was tee-shirt weather.

This morning when I was heading to work, and in the evening returning home, I noticed overturned garbage receptacles. These are heavy concrete standers, which would need the strength of three or four drunken fratboy types or one very demented chappie on something. I suspect that it actually was the latter, because the fratboys largely confine themselves to Silicon Gulch, and, sad to say, demented people are a dime a dozen.

They'll probably die of exposure soon.

Note to the rest of the country: kindly stop sending us your loonies by one-way ticket. We do not need them, and surely you have the wherewithal to take care of them in your part of the world? We keep hearing tales about how y'all are so much better than us, they are probably unhappy here.
And they're your relatives, you should cherish them!

We'd rather hear the chirping of crickets.
We're not that interested in you.
Or your mad men.


Same goes 100% for your partying frat boy types who moved here after graduating, or pot-smoking trustfunders, as well as your large lumbering kinfolk visiting us for colour. Sorry, we just don't have enough tofu and bacon to feed y'all.

Places with four seasons are beautiful at this time of year.
Lovely fall colours, and gentle breezes!
The East Coast, late summer!

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Sunday, September 23, 2018


MY ex-girlriend is a "tobacco-rather-non-tolerating" type. But on the other hand, she is a 'myself quite tolerant person', so naturally we still live together, because I am an opportunist, and without her the stuffed animals would have far less of a voice. Besides, in this city you do not switch from someone you trust around your stuff to some stranger as an apartment mate. You would end up with a trust-fund schizo OR a multiple substance abusing seller of raw oysters. Some crazy drug-addled dingo in any case.
Or a sub-continental computer programmer.

"Oh Gora-ji, in MY village nobody smokes a pipe, and we do not imbibe Scottish liquors, oh no! Kindly please be adhering to Brahmachariya, for everybody's improvements of karma!"

"A pipe can borrow? We are going to indulge in ganj."

And he'd probably throw out my bacon and sausages, but unlike the person whose parents set him up for life, despite his insanity, OR the drug-addled recent college graduate, the volumes of Nabokov and tins of MacBaren's would be reasonably safe.

Savage Kitten knows not to throw out my empty tins even, because I might find a use for them. She doesn't mess with my stuff, I don't touch her stuff. We have separate rooms, but share space, utilities, rent, and expenses.

It's a good arrangement.

Last night while smoking two bowls of blonde flake I got to see people much younger than myself being stupid. One well-dressed fellow sleeping at a bus-stop. A woman in a lovely dress being kind, generous, humane, and staggeringly drunk. Bros huffing weed and arguing with a telephone pole.
A black man being threatened that if he drank more people would break his arms so he would have a valid excuse not to show up at work -- "sorry, but someone put me in the hospital for no reason last night, I am encased in plaster and can't work for six weeks" -- and a waitress storming around cursing the clientele. And someone with dreads from Nottingham.
Whose parents were Welsh.

I should mention that the bar to which everyone steered the Nottinghammer is NOT a skateboard bar. Imagine instead large middle-aged queens, butch cowboys and stormtroopers in tight leather, and fay young sailors, in a place with giant glowing gay penis teevee screens. Technicolour, orange, moist.

He'll have something to remember from his visit.
Two blocks away, west side of the street.
It's ... very very English.

When I came back into the apartment, I had had only two drinks, and smoked two pipes. She was asleep in her quarters, I finished the second bowl in the teevee room. All my stuff was still there.

I very much approve of this woman. She doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, never indulges in illicit substances, and is quite sane (other than creating imaginary lives for a bear, two sheep, several monkeys and penguins, and a vampire hamster), and we trust each other to be decent human beings.

If anyone acts Republican towards her, I will beat his ass.

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Saturday, September 22, 2018


One of the great things about working in Marin is that I do not have to ever associate with some of the people with whom I have come in contact there after returning to San Francisco in the evening.
Some of those people are cretins.

No, I will not name them.

Nor will I even mention their identifying markings. I will however state that they are precisely the kind of people who might make the rest of us apologize for being white. You know, much like Trump, McConnell, Hatch, Kavanaugh, or, gorrelpus, Louis Gomert. Plus everyone related to them.

I shan't apologize for being white. I'll just remind you that Shakespeare was white, as where William the Silent, Gerbrandt Adriaenszoon Brederode, Saki, Baruch de Spinoza, Georges Simenon, the entire Monty Python crew, Marie-Antoine Carême, and Georges Auguste Escoffier. All of whom were indisputable great and good people.

So the fact that a passel of ambulatory turds in Washington and a flock of cretins in Marin are white and reprehensible is no skin off my ass, nor anything that in any way represents me.

I do hope that they all perish in unpleasant ways, though.
So I am keenly interested in what happens to them.
Let the bald ones get scalp melanomas.
And the others lose their hair.
Even if it's clearly fake.
Orange peruke.

PS.: Please do not use the phrase 'boys will boys' for a while. It neither explains nor excuses, but it does mark you as f*cking pustule who should be kicked to death.
And probably a Christian.

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Friday, September 21, 2018


The best that can be said about prep school graduates, and I'm sure that our president would agree, is that (probably) most of them have not successfully killed their victims and disposed of the bodies.

But does America's sexual predation culture really need a voice on the Supreme Court?

One could argue that it is already over-represented in sports, fundamentalist religion, fraternities, and board rooms, and enough people hear its call that it needs no further preference; in parts of the country it is the only voice.

Besides, we've already got Reagan's pick there.

Perhaps it's time to start ignoring the NRA, Putin, and Iowa.

As well as re-examine the past histories of every man in the Cabinet, and several Republican party stalwarts, because it now seems likely that many of them had a teenage sexual assault phase. After all, "boys will be boys".

What WAS Senator Grassley up to 35 years ago?
How about Utah politico Orrin Hatch?
We have a right to know.

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Thursday, September 20, 2018


The conversation behind me was composed mostly of 'eh' and 'ay', what with both of them being stoned out of their gourds, as well as drunk. Not a great combination of circumstance, but they made the most of it.

At one point, the more English-speaking of the two remarked that the waiter had one blue eye and one grey. Which, when he came with their burgers, they pointed out to him.

No, he didn't know what they meant. This one has pepper Jack and bacon, this one is blue cheese.

"Eh. Eh. Eh. Ay. Eh. Eh. Ay ..... "

"Eh? Hey! Ah? Ehhh ... "

The problem with the modern era is that pipe smokers have to sit outside with the pot heads, and, bluntly put, I hate the smell of Mary J.
You're all disgusting, and it ain't therapeutic.

[No, marijuana is NOT grown by little green men in the rainforest who hug trees, save the dolphins, and recycle! What have you been smoking, idiot?!?]

Sometimes the smell of weed is overpowering in this neighborhood, and the use of that repulsive substance cuts across all classes and income levels.

"Eh. Eh? Eh! Eh. Ay. Eh. Ah. Eh."

Other than when "the most dangerous man in Chinatown" is at the karaoke place, you never smell that in the Chinese area. But he's American born, so that isn't too surprising.

I've become a frightful puritan in my old age.
I now despise all illicit substances.

Frightful perverts!


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The perfect ji baau daan gou is light, fluffy, airy, delicious, and does not interfere with dinner. Especially when you don't plan to have dinner, because lunch was late enough in the day that you don't need to.
It's a delicious poofy snack.

I had my tea down on Pacific after a late lunch, but bought two ji baau daan gou to go. One for me, one for my apartment mate, who was watching cyst videos on youtube when I got home, and did not seem to have an appetite.

Conversation between various white people overheard down on Montgomery Street yesterday while smoking my pipe:

"Do I have a vaj?" "No, son, you don't." "But what if I want one?" "This subject is closed, we shall move on to the next." "I want a vaj!" "Didn't I just say we shan't discuss it any further?
"I deserve a vaj! I deserve a vaj!"

Yeah, I don't envy that mother at all.
She's got quite a handful there.
I know to silence him.

Paper wrapped cake. It's light, fluffy, airy, and delicious.
Chiffon, single serving.

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Wednesday, September 19, 2018


My friend the bookseller mentioned a person considerably shorter who gets off the bus at Hyde Street some evenings, after working at the hospital.
I probably know who that is. It's Ragnall's cousin, the one with the college degree. Most of them don't have that much education, so he's the oddball of the family, though on the very rare occasions when a few of them get together, they don't treat him any differently. He's a nice fellow.

And we all admire him for his determination.
He has a medical career, despite the odds.

Now he's saving up to buy a bridge.

Because, of course, to his kind bridges represent stability.
One can charge goaty types for crossing.
Gold! And excess dairy.

Despite their long tradition of self-reliance and life unencumbered by human culture, wild creatures like him have over the ages adapted to certain things only found among the tall people. Such as Russian Caravan Tea (Jackson's of Piccadilly used to make a great blend, but they were bought out years ago), Virginia No. 10 by Sobranie (which ceased to exist a long time before), and, crucially, light bulbs. Trolls need light bulbs.

And toilet paper. Life in California is impossible without toilet paper. Short hairy Scandinavians did not come here before toilet paper was available.

Trolls. Lightbulbs. Toilet paper.

The corner market at the top of the hill ALWAYS keeps pallets of toilet paper in the stock room, as they learned long ago that running out means that he will push them angrily and show his teeth. And really, who can blame him? When you leave your hidey-hole basement at three in the morning for a roll, it really is too far to walk to find another open convenience store.

Especially one operated by immigrants who don't question appearance.
Because most Americans look strange by their standards.

The hospital where he works also takes the way he looks for granted, as anyone wearing scrubs and a lab coat is a reliable person, especially with a name tag. And naturally he is the right height for the delivery ward.
They've seen all kinds there, and are used to freaks.
Doctor Håreten, ob-gyn.

I should mention that delivery wards in most hospitals do have toilet paper. It's not just nappies and puke buckets!

He is well advanced towards getting his very own bridge. Clever investing, portfolio diversification, and options, have increased his worth enormously, and though the costs of engineering projects have gone up -- partly due to new earthquake safety requirements in the state -- and existing structures are seldom offered for sale, he feels confident that sometime in this decade he shall acquire one. Preferably near where lots of goats reside.
Berkeley, or Marin County. Either or.
They appreciate goats there.

Where there are goats, there will be milk.
Trolls just purely love milk.
Milk is good.

Please note that a few bridges require seismic upgrades.
That now adds considerably to the cost!

[When my friend mentioned the short gentleman on the bus (whom you should NOT pat on the head), I immediately remembered this: Drink Milk!]

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It was bitterly cold last night. Indeed, folks in parts of the rest of the country are enjoying ninety degree heat right now, but in San Francisco it was around fifty. Cold. Windy. Well, a gentle breeze, long after dark. But evenso a bitter and vicious breeze, the angry vengeful Lutheran among motile airs.
This blogger is fundamentally opposed to that.
I would have preferred low seventies.
Even the late sixties.

This time last year we were boiling. For much of that time I wore only boxer shorts around the house, what with my apartment mate being safely at work where such dishabilimentitude would not disturb her.
I am considerate that way.

Besides, I am a middle-aged dude, and painfully aware that I am by no means the image of a strong butch well-sculpted enchanting male model. So.

Other than my very neatly trimmed goatee, deep deep eyes, and snarkily intelligent expression, you would not want to see more.

All things good for you make you poo.

The bar nibble at the Chinese karaoke place had little black seeds, which, apparently, are "beneficial". If you are white, that can mean only one thing. Seeing as Caucasians in this country adhere to British culinary habits.
The little black seeds are said to be good for you.
Eliminative Caucasians, oh joy.

As has been remarked, if you can pee standing up, that's a blessing. It means that an enlarged prostate has ceased to be a problem, entirely aside from which you are probably male.

The nipple tweaker prefers Mandarin songs with a patriotic bend, Jenny likes old fashioned airs, such as both Teresa Teng and Chou Hsuen sang. There is a period in recent Chinese history, from the early fifties up to the early eighties, when everything looked the same. Home-tailored form fitted baggy clothes of a modest traditional design, spare old-fashioned interiors, and either pigtails or bobs. except, of course, for some truly horrible years in between, which we've all deliberately forgotten.

His songs often feature military men, either black and white or sepia.
Hers show spartan interiors, and very good people.
An entirely different golden age.

I suspect he may have spent time in the army.

I vastly prefer it when Jenny sings. She has a great voice, and I truly cannot appreciate the 'little white poplar' number (小白楊 "hsiao bai yang"), which seems to mean girls wearing vibrant native costume and hats with red pom poms, and takes place in a relatively dry part of the tropic south.
It's artistic, own-country-esque, and colourfully boring.

Even Canto-pop about a sad woman and a zombie was better.
Well, not really a zombie, but hip and dead.
Lobotomized or drugged.

Two Jamesons, and cigarillos after.

We were on the opposite side of the block where Bug Grass City Sea Flavour Emporium (蟲草城海味店) is. You've seen the place. It's intriguing and big. Interesting mushrooms and much odd dried stuff. I caught a cab homeward on the nearby corner. Filippino driver, from Subic.

Up till past four in the morning.
Cricket in the air well.
That's why.

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Tuesday, September 18, 2018


After waking up late I had three strong cups of coffee and two Nicaraguan cigars (A. J. Fernandez, toros), before heading out for early dinner in lieu of breakfast. I suppose the coffee and cigars were a breakfast of sorts, but there is no actual nutrition there.


A roast meats restaurant, quite popular. Three or four couples of varied age, an elderly woman having wonton soup, young lady eating congee, and a business man having a loud conversation on his cell-phone.
And some other single diners.

Two couples were on a date.

What I had was something nobody in their right mind should order on a date. South milk pig hand rice. By which is understood braised pork knuckles with fermented beancurd sauce. Juicy fatty, gelatinous, delicious. And, because you need to suck and gnaw, not something a person you want to impress should ever see across the table.

Good thing I ate by myself.

Finger licking.

南乳 ('naam yü'): red fermented tofu.
豬手 ('chyü sau'): pig's knuckle.
('faan'): cooked rice.

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In an article in a Hong Kong newspaper the case is discussed of Chinese tourists arriving at a hotel in Stockholm in the middle of the night over fifteen hours before their reservation, when no rooms were available for them yet, and objecting very histrionically to that fact. They were tired, they were old, their feet hurt, and they were operatic. They were promptly thrown out. With the help of Stockholm police, they were deposited elsewhere (on the street), and told to come back at the right time.

How you stand on this seems to be largely determined by whether you are an expat living among Chinese people but entirely unable to deal with your circumstances in an adult manner, a Chinese person, a Swede dammit or culturally akin and sympathetic to that kind of people, or 'other'.

I am other.

Why the hell would anyone want to visit Stockholm?

Especially when any yen you have for meatballs is easily satisfied by visiting Ikea or lunch counters in the great american outback.
And surely you already know how to boil potatoes?
Surströmming, turnips, and cabbage rolls.
Raggmuck, grot, and fiskbullar.
Gelatinous old cod (*).

[Lutfisk ("lutefisk", 鹼漬魚): soak stokvis (codfish dried to the plank stage) for five days in cold water, then two days in a water and woodlye solution. Then soak it in cold water for yet another five days. Take it out, cover it with salt for an hour, rinse it thoroughly, and place it well-covered in a pan on the back burner for half an hour, or briefly parboil it wrapped in cheesecloth. Serve with boiled potatoes, mashed peas, and bacon grease. This builds character.]

As culinary adventure goes, it is a long slog through a savage wasteland.

The most popular streetside snack, snarfed down by drunken vikings after dark, is a boiled frank slathered with mayonnaise, mashed potato, fried and raw onion, pickle relish, additional condiments, and shrimp salad.
Wrapped in a flatbread or a soggy bun.
By someone named Günter.

Best stay out of all the Nordic countries, and flee south. Stay in Holland one or two days for the Indonesian, Surinamese, and Middle Eastern food, plus raw herring, smoked eel, and unidentified fried object, then head straight for Belgium, France, and Italy.

Spanish food is good too, but there are too many drunken Brits everywhere swilling Watneys Red Barrel and learning flamenco.

The middle-aged Chinese couple were dumped outside near a korv kiosk by the heartless cops. They promptly curled up and started moaning.
The Swedes invented Abba.

Central heat, bathing, and news media only arrived recently in Western Europe, but outside of Scandinavia they aren't so much on the fence about those things. And in a few places, slightly enthusiastic even.

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Monday, September 17, 2018


One can assume that my Friday, which is everybody else's Monday, is a bit different. The weekend is over, people are tired out from partying, gloomy because they have five dreary workdays ahead ..... and whatever drugs they're on, are a stronger dose. Some of them.

Tin foil hat Stevie was raging this morning. He plans to call Kate Sears (Marin County Supervisor, district 3), and give her a piece of his mind.
It's probably warm and wet, peculiarly shaped, and may be dripping.
It took half an hour for him to leave.

It's Marin, so she's probably quite familiar with his type already. Who knows, he may be a new soulmate for her. And they will be so happy together!
Even though he's a smoker and she's a raging healthfreak.
Opposites attract.

Today every third or fourth person was at least mildly afflicted.
It's Marin. Did I already mention that?

I should also mention that the bus driver on the trip back to San Francisco is a saint. The passenger who kept talking to him, and trying to offer him flowers, was clearly on something.

"I like black people; they make me want to dance!"

"Oh man, your voice is lovely, you are special!"

"Look at all these beautiful Asians here!"

"Bus driver, give yourself a raise."

"Lay it on my momma!"


"You must be so super tolerant, man, on this bus you got gays, straights, trannies, and Brazilians!"

From where I got on, all the way through Sausalito, across the bridge, and well into San Francisco, he gesticulated, exclamated, danced with stale flowers, and loudly, disjointedly, sang the praises of the bus driver.

It does NOT take all kinds, there are several we can do without.

Stoned hippy asshats are the first thing to get rid of.

They are irritating and they smell bad.

And might cause accidents.

What we need, however, and I think everyone will agree, is busdrivers.
Plus gays, straights, trannies, and Brazilians.

Are we on board with that?

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