Monday, October 31, 2022


After listening to the local rightwingers all weekend, the logical conclusion anyone could possible reach is that Republicans are all sick f*cks AND have homosexual fantasies.
Also, Marjorie Taylor Greene is a crapule oozing lubriciously over Elon Musk.

If you think that Elon Musk is a lizard alien, you are not alone.
And he's not alone.

You are known by your friends and associates.
Years ago I disassociated myself from a group of activists because of the rightwing gun nut and his allies who had become dominant. I have avoided contact with most of the group, cutting them off entirely. Including all the other fascists and bigots defriended over the years, there are more than a hundred people who I do not wish to know, and wish ill upon, whenever I think of them at all.

Because of work, there are some assholes I cannot avoid.
As well as their friends and associates.

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While I was outside having a final smoke of the day (Gawith Best Brown Flake in a sandblast billiard), three short blonde manga sex bombe slut vampires with gogo boots strolled past, every breast taughtly forward and held in place by tight fabric. Good lord.
In my day only gays did that. Art student gays.

I used to know a lot of them.

Back then, the only straight people who dressed for Halloween were often still in kneepants. Now the kid crowd is wondering what went wrong and why everyone is pissing in their turf.

They still haven't figured out why some manga and anime is in the roped off section.
They think that's altogether mighty unChristian.
They're probably right.
In the olden days, every word of dialogue in the movie was in French, and it was called an art film. Nowadays, squeaky Japanese, and cultural exposure. It helps twenty somethings learn crucial phrases for when they visit Tokyo. Or conventions.

What's truly frightening is that eventually even severely antique people with crutches, blotches, and walkers will strut about like this for Halloween.

In which case I'll have no choice but to smoke indoors.

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Sunday, October 30, 2022


When I came home I was in a foul mood. Entirely because of rightwing vulgarians in Marin. Where I work appears to be ground zero for them. From when the Manchester United game was on in the morning till the end of the Forty Niner game not nearly soon enough in the afternoon, I had to put up with the weasels.

Naturally, I
Hate Marin. Hate rightwingers. Hate ball games.

By the way, I also hate most Christians, and believe that both Nero and Caligula were sadly underappreciated. But it's not too late to continue where they left off, and you will be pleased to know that most churches AND most Christians are quite flammable.

The deep south is filled with all three of the above.
Texas especialy. I think we should start there.
Or Florida, either or. Let's not quibble.

Exceptionally, I'll be at work again tomorrow. Usually I'm off.
Don't worry, I won't go postal on the cretins.

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When I came home yesterday evening I had to wade through piles of rutting corpses, errrm rutting yupses. Polk Street was packed. Like Santa Con all over again. Next time, pitchforks. As a severe non-drunk, I have to disapprove of people considerably younger than myself rutting in public.
No, I'm not jealous. I do not wish to rut in public.
Whether rutting is on the programme or not is not an issue.

That was just day ONE of the three-day holiday. Y'all need to behave.

Don't throw up in the doorway on the opposite side of the street a little way down.
It's unseemly. And rude.

As my co-resident in this apartment put it succintly, "I can't believe the white people".

I'm just not into your holidays. What I did once I got home was have a cup of coffee, take an amlodipine besylate, step out for a smoke around the block (more intemperate behaviour witnessed), then return home to talk to my turkey vulture and doze off.

By the way, in case you didn't know, I am 43% Nigerian precisely like Meghan Markle.
So I can sneer at all da misbehavin' white peepos.
It's shocking, tell you what.

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Saturday, October 29, 2022


Over fourteen years ago, nudists meddled in the local peace movement, and showed up at protests wearing their message and nothing else. San Francisco insisted that, at the very least, they bring towels. Because you always need a towel. Towels promote intergalactic social sanity. It was rather Douglas Adamsian.

Surely you remember the naked men in the Occupy movement? The nakedeers at Castro? The nudists for peace who by threatening to show up nixed a pro-Palestine manifestation?
Naked bicyclists going through Chinatown and the Financial District?

This blogger is completely in favour of naked radicals.
Under a number of specific circumstances.
One of them being indoors.
Or Berkeley.

Honestly, Berkeley, all of Berkeley, every inch of it, is perfect for nudity. I haven't been to that city in over a decade, but I remember it as a warm hospitable environment where nudity can thrive. There are no children or old people there, so it's entirely safe for large naked women and scrotal inflation dude.

Not only Berkeley, but most of the East Bay is perfect for naked people and their hammers.
I fondly imagine hordes of them showing up at church suppers, get out the vote drives, and art openings. Sporting events. Barbecues. Open studios. Frat boy keggers.
I promise that I will never bring my clothing to their parties.
My clothing is utterly bourgeois; I admit that.
Please don't threaten me with tools.
Do you have a towel?

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Friday, October 28, 2022


Catching the bus back yesterday there were a whole passle of folks waiting, mostly oldsters with canes, but also a few others. Including a nice young lady with a blue miniskirt and little red guard pigtails. Whom I would have let on ahead of me -- one should ALWAYS let young ladies carrying pumpkins on first, that's a rule I just made up -- but she entered via the rear door. Anyway, finished the last pipe smoke of my days-off on the front steps. An elderly white man finished his smoke at the bus stop, and slowly walked past me, taking occasional sips of a canned cocktail.

I'm not sure what I think of ambulatory drinking.
Even if old, bored, and alone.
It seems ... wrong.

Maybe men like that need young ladies with pumpkins. I don't know, it might brighten their lives. It seems to me that young ladies carrying pumpkins are a very good thing, and there aren't nearly enough of them.

They should all flock in droves to my neighborhood.
I say this out of the kindness of my heart.
I do not have an agenda.

Cake. I could offer them cake. Young ladies love cake!
Sadly, I did NOT have a chance to fully take in the legs under the miniskirt. But from what little I did see, I shall assume that they are fine. It seemed a little chilly to wear so short an outfit, and unsurprisingly I myself was not wearing a skirt. And with my legs that was probably a good thing. Although if my apartment mate's ex-boyfriend were on the bus I would have, just to make him jealous. For some queer reason he envied my good legs.

Not something I could see myself. They're unremarkable and sort of functional. They reach all the way to the floor. And locomote when required. But I've always believed that unless one is a young fellow, an athlete, or a young lady carrying a pumpkin, one's legs should be invisible and not on public view.

In answer to the woman at the vegetable store, no, I did not study on the mainland, I've never even been there. But thank you.

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Thursday, October 27, 2022


An article recently described a cheap lunch of porkchop, garlic fried rice, and a fried egg with the yolk still runny. Which the writer loved. Immensely. Shan't link, as the place already does booming business and is likely to be overrun by yuppies now, but it all sounded wonderful.

My own favourite places have all raised their prices a bit, which is understandable.

A quote from that laudatory article:

"Meyn shveybshif iz ful fun veyners! Min luftdümpetbüüdj as ful ma äil! Habakrap bilong me em i pulap long liklikpela snek bilong solwara!"

This exemplifies the struggle for a cheap working man's lunch in San Francisco.

I have no idea what I'm doing for lunch today.
A porkchop IS among the possibilities.
Years ago this was still a city for regular folks. Today, it's a playground for e-commerce yupsters. Hip restaurants and craft beer places litter many neighborhoods, food items are sold with certificates of provenance and curricula vitae showing that the tofu and precious little golden squashes were harvested in a humane fashion, and ethically sourced.

No. A real person wants something that lived stupendously, raged with feelings, died quick, and may be served with bottled sauces. Possibly with a fried egg on top.

Or any case can be fried with bacon fat.

A friend mentioned that he had recently dined on a bowl of yoghurt with raw garlic and a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. It was experimental, and he spent the next day farting.
It seems both earthy and effete. Positively Roman.

My bet is that now that he knows it can be done he will repeat the experiment.
He's unattached, and that kind of man.

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Visitors and migrants tell us they mis the Fall. "Oh, the Autumn colours back East", they say, "truly a sight to behold". Then they start weeping into their beer. Which, probably, reminded them, because beer is golden, and smells of ferments. I too like the bronze and yellow hues prevalent when the weather turn cold, but here it's more subtle, and doesn't hit you over the head, clobbering your eyes with intensity. Instead, variations on umber and yellow ochre.
Muted washes and a golden glaze, rather than bold impasto and deep sienna pools.
Softer shadings, not so much dark shadow.

It also lasts longer. By the end of December the gingko leaves will start turning, on Clay Street at the top of the hill and Pacific Avenue outside the projects, below Grant, drifts will briefly gather before city cleaning sweeps the litter.

Very lovely.
Meanwhile, here's somewhere in the Apalachian range, or West Virginia slash Vermont, to help you weep into your warm breakfast beer. Blobs, dots, and smears.

Now go out there and pooh your dog. Your little French Bull is wide awake, full of beans (or something), and doesn't get moistly emotional over scenery elsewhere.

I could say something snarky, but I don't want to upset you.
It's far too early in the season for that.

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Wednesday, October 26, 2022


Last night Jenny waxed wistful about Hong Kong during the seventies through the nineties, though admitting that it was probably better since then. Which is understandable. Back then it was more shiny, though a bit more hard scrabble. The music seemed brighter, the enterprise more brash. Golden age unnoticeably segued into golden age.

The fashion sense, however, was always berserk. That hasn't changed. Mid Eighties HK clothing had a lot of electric olive green. Plus dull gold, blacks, and, oddly, pink. I remember being piqued by a sporty jacket that in bold lettering on a pink back ground advertised the "Royal Pink Regiment".

Yeah, um, okay. Whatever. You rock, dude.

Names that must be mentioned, because the eighties and nineties were glorious because of them: Chow Yunfat (周潤發), Leslie Cheung (張國榮), Maggie Cheung (張曼玉), Cherie Chung (鍾楚紅), Anita Mui (梅艷芳), and Michelle Yeoh (楊紫瓊). Some of them have "left the building" since then. Jenny and the bookseller would probably have slightly different lists.

Note: These are all movie people. Yes, there was also vibrant Canto-pop (in addition to the ever-audible opening credit song from 'Seunghoi Tan', but that never was my thing. Sorry.
Hong Kong has changed. It's still there. I haven't seen a Hong Kong movie in many years. But I have been overexposed to mega music videos shot at that huge venue at the tip of Kowloon. My barber had them on screen, chachantengs have them, karaoke joints, even some staid and very conservative businesses. I walked by a home town association the other day, and a pop song was visible in the backroom with strobe lights, glow sticks, thousands of fans, and two or three dozen strangely garbed back-up dancers on a multi-level stage. No idea what the song was, and I don't want to hear it. Probably all about how you've changed me, my life will never be the same, we shared taxis then we no longer go in the same direction, and I am consumed with mid-twenties yuppie existential angst.
Woe, despair, snow, teddy bears. Etcetera.

I never did find out who or what the 'Royal Pink Regiment' was.
Something from the heyday of the Crown Colony, probably.
I'm guessing refreshingly hip.

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North Beach was relatively quiet, though one of the dives seemed to be jampacked with the flowering youth of the city, getting inebriated as is their wont. That's something with which I have no issue -- sozzled yugend meet with my approval, though I keep them distant -- but there was no place to sit down. So we went directly to the karaoke joint, did not pass go and didn't collect one hundred dollars, where Jenny put on some queer Hong Kong stuff from the seventies, featuring one cringy song from the flapper era.

So I looked up the song on youtube. Wow. The accompanying video from 2012 is ..... something else. No, shan't mention the name of the song or the original group.
Just, Jayzus. Mini skirts and coolie hats. Sweet Jayzus.

I've got a strong stomach.

As we left the venue, Chinatown's dumbest waiter started massacring a lovely song from a Shanghai movie made in the thirties. I know all the words to it, but because I like it far too much, I shall not sing it.

When I had eaten lunch earlier in Chinatown (late, so more like teatime or an early dinner) the restaurant had been just as empty as the karaoke place. Is something going on?
Are people staying home because of the colder weather?

The restaurant is on of my favourite chachantengs. Such places used to do Chinese versions of western food, but have shifted to a more Hong Kong cosmopolitan selection of offerings, convenient and slightly off-kilter. Not what you would expect from a Cantonese Restaurant in the American heartland and consequently not often patronized by non-Chinese. Which suits me fine. As long as there is a bottle of Sriracha on the premises, and a cup of milk tea, I'm okay. Three more tables showed up within minutes of my entry, one of which changed places several times for reasons I cannot figure out. American Chinese, speaking English, so feng shui had nothing to do with it. Maybe it was goofy paranoia?
Pipe after lunch

There was a weird vibe in the city today.
Probably from the earthquake.
Pipe before karaoke

All things considered, karaoke would not be a chosen past time or evening's entertainment.
But it seems to be the wave of the future, and can be educational or instructive.
And of course it's better than The Grateful Dead.
Or televised sports.

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Tuesday, October 25, 2022


As you probably know, I drink my caffeinated beverages mostly alone, facing the bleakness and emptiness of a life filled with the existential self-doubt and stress of deciding which pipe to smoke when I go out for a solitary stroll around the neighborhood in the cold grim darkness before dawn. "Blah", I seem to say, "more dog pooh".
And step over the pile steaming there.
A sad, sad world.

In this I am the only one. Other people wake up to an extroverted dog licking their face with an urgent need. They go out to tend to business, before returning home for half an hour of yoga, glutenfree wheaties and holistic yogurt, possibly a shower, then slaving eight or nine hours at the office working on a high-tech project that will save the world.

They are upset that some people are more at ease.
Even happy, when drinking coffee.

"My husband and I wake up every morning and bring our coffee out to our garden and sit and talk for hours. Every morning. It never gets old & we never run out of things to talk (about). Love him so much."
------Daisey Beaton, on October 21.

Apparently that tweet offpissed some people. The twittiverse reacted with outrage. Daisey Beaton was flooded with bile. Because vacuous twats in Twuntville were highly upset at the happiness of her life. And felt that suffering over cups of coffee was more appropriate.
How odd. I have always considered caffeinated beverages a source of joy.
Civilization did not start until hot drinks were introduced.
Glutenfree wheaties had zilch to do with it.

Gardens are very nice. Enjoying a cup of coffee there is great.
If I were married I should like to do so.
If I had a garden.

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During the time when Savage Kitten was still my girlfriend, instead of just being the unique and feisty eccentric who lives in the other room as she is now, I never could interest her in smoking a pipe. Or enjoying the peculiar things which are American cuisine at its finest, like the appetizers invented by San Franciscan culinary genius Trader Vic, such as Crab Rangoon and Rumaki.

Crab Rangoon is a filling of primarily cream cheese and chopped scallion, with dubious other substances, wrapped in a wonton skin, deepfried crispy, and served with a sweet reddish sauce. Rumaki is chicken liver and water chestnuts wrapped in bacon, drizzled with soy sauce, and grilled. Don't eat the toothpick.

I felt that as we live in San Francisco, we should at least sometimes sample the queer shiznit the natives are alleged to eat. Or historically have eaten. Sadly, I don't think she's ever even had a bacon-wrapped hotdog.

She remains ambivalent about Spam. Inexplicable.
Spam, rice, and a fried egg are the great American breakfast. As I understand it, generations of Midwestern college boys have grown enormous on this and gone on to successful careers as pro-football players after failing their academic subjects. Or gotten arrested after drunken fratboy high jinks late at night. Truly, a priceless cultural legacy!

That and American pancakes. Which I refuse to touch.

I don't eat Spam often. Should throw out the tins.
They're getting a bit old. Emergency rations.
An earthquake an hour ago reminded me.

Actually, rumaki, crab rangoon, and pancakes are all things I've had -- they were part of my sink or swim exposure to American life, which my parents had shielded me from when we lived overseas -- but they've never touched a nerve or won any affection from me. The crab rangoons served in the basement of the student union were an interesting experiment, and that sweet reddish sauce that my fellow Americans love so much did NOT add bupkes.

Possibly all of them would benefit from Sriracha.
As do Spam and fried egg over rice.
Also the reddish goo.

Lunch today will be bittermelon omelette over rice down in Chinatown at that place on Stockton Street. With the vegetable in lieu of Spam. You needn't look so appalled.
You lot eat those nasty pancakes.

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Over the last two years I have learned that asking maskless people "what sh*thole state are you from?" is undiplomatic. Instead, one should ask how they are enjoying their trip to San Francisco, and is this the first time they have left home? Also, I deserve sheer oodles of praise for keeping my mouth largely shut on the bus.

It is worth noting, btw, that all of the covid sceptics in the backroom caught covid. No, none of them croaked -- they weren't idiot enough to not get their vaccinations -- but their approach to masks was precisely the same as their feelings about elderly incontinence pants.
Screechily whining "I don't wanna!" every damn' day.

They've recovered, but I can't help suspecting that it took their intellectual abilities down several points. That may just be my bias.

Their wives probably haven't noticed a thing. Yes, they're married. But their wives are from Marin, and probably radiate a strong hippie vegan freak aura.
I have probably become a much better human being in these two years. More tolerant of the festering garbage that this society in many ways is.
As well as its disease carrying residents.
You are all nuts. You smell bad, dress funny, and eat too much.
But you watch Fox, and that explains a lot.
I no longer fear rabies.

I seethe with humane thoughts.
Just bubbling over I am.

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Monday, October 24, 2022


When I entered I recognized seven people. Surprisingly all of them also recognized me. Despite all white people, as is well known, looking alike. No matter how big the nose or corpse-like the round eyes, we're anonymous and look like every other white person.
And good heavens, there are so many of us Caucasians in this world!
I have been told that I am handsome, like Robert Redford or Richard Milhouse Nixon. Those being two white individuals that Chinese people kind of recognize.
In fact I look like neither of those estimable gentlemen.
One of whom is dead. Maybe the other is too.
The jury is still out.

Very late lunch. Braised grouper over rice (紅燒斑球飯 'hung siu paan kau faan').
Plus a cup of milk tea, and a smoke afterwards.

I would have preferred some roast duck, but I didn't feel like overdoing things.
Besides, roast duck often tastes even more scrumptious with good company.

Scrumptious = 美味的
What with being a somewhat antisocial Dutch American, I do not know many people with whom I could share roast duck, and even fewer who would not object to the pipe afterwards. And none of them are actually in San Francisco, or invitable telephonically at the drop of a hat. My days off schedule is also a bit of a handicap in that regard.

I can honestly say that I have not broken bread with anyone at any of my favourite restaurants in Chinatown. This is by no means a stellar achievement.

It's actually kind of depressing.

Lunch was very good. Excellent food in a nice place.

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At least one of the states, probably some dumb-ass Trump state, false-reports their covid death figures over the weekend. It's been a recognizable pattern for several months now. They probably believe that no one will notice, and people will be lulled into assuming that nothing at all is happening.

Tuesday October 18, 11:42 PM
1,065,841 deaths.

Wednesday October 19, after midnight.
1,066,584 deaths.
[Increase: 743]

Thursday October 20, 11:18 PM
1,067,190 deaths.
[Increase: 606]

Friday October 21, 11:11 PM
1,067,673 deaths.
[Increase: 483]

Saturday October 22, 10:12 PM
1,067,685 deaths.
[Increase: 12]

Sunday October 23, 8:48 PM
1,067,686 deaths.
[Increase: 1]

What, Americans don't die unless bureaucrats are on duty?

Saturday October 22 to Sunday the 23rd: 1 death.
Saturday October 15 to Sunday the 16th: 1 death.
Saturday October 8 to Sunday the 9th: 4 deaths.
Saturday October 1 to Sunday the 2nd: 0 deaths.
Saturday September 24 to Sunday the 25th: 7 deaths.
Saturday September 17 to Sunday the 18th: 7 deaths.

There have been approximately three thousand Covid deaths every week for the last month.
Saturday September 24: 1,056,409 deaths. Today, October 24: 1,067,833 deaths by mid-day.

Nebraska and Missouri, where no one ever dies, stopped regularly updating their covid numbers this past Spring. Accurate numbers for Florida are probably non-existant.
Texas shows every indication of unreliability.

Draw your own conclusions, and perhaps avoid travelling to the shithole states (Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia, West Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming).

Oh, and congratulations to Missouri's Kansas City Chiefs for their victory yesterday.
You are all winners! Missouri achieved something! Kudos.

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The contrast could not be greater. During football season the backroom at work on Sunday afternoon is filled with the howling, Monday mornings at home are quiet, peaceful, serene. Given how much joy a victory for their team would give the rancid old stodges, I rejoice every time the local pride comes a cropper. Once last year whenever Minnesota scored against the Niners Jeffy was practically weeping, ever since then, to show my team spirit (or an utter lack thereof), I holler "Minnesooota" back there at suitable intervals, whichever teams are playing. Eventually it will haunt his dreams. Perhaps he'll foul his shorts periodically.

I take pride in adding bumps to his retirement disharmony.
He used to be a liberal, but he's changed.
Marriage does that to a man.

{He married a Trumpite two years ago.]

Yesterday afternoon was a happy happy happy day in Kansas City.
Marin was filled with weeping old farts.

My Sundays are filled with hellish racket, foul smells, and operatic drama.
On Monday I relax and if I think about "them" at all, it is with distaste.
The only constants shared are caffeinated beverages.
Fittingly, the only sounds now are The British Grenadiers, sung in Japanese. It must confuse the Indian phone centre wallahs when they call to rope me into some nefarious scheme allegedly involving "American Senior/Benefits Services/Office/Bureau".

"Hello, this is Kevin, calling from ... how are you today?"

Like one of my fellow pipe smokers, I simply answer "I am" to that question. And today I am allowing The British Grenadiers to continue the conversation unintelligibly till they hang up.
I have no idea why that song was translated into Japanese.
It's one of life's great mysteries.

[Always use speaker phone. Keeps the hands free for the pipe.]

Eleven spam calls sofar. Eight of them hung up, three of them went dead and I disconnected. There must be mass confusion in Hyderabad. I am presently dreaming of a nice lamb biriani somewhere close to the Char Minar, perhaps with a side of shami kebabs, and a refreshing raita. Or mirch ka salan. Perhaps I should rent a suite at the Shams Hotel? Oh wait, that's actually a restaurant that does lamb biriani! Hotels in that part of the world are not really hotels. Maybe there are lodgings or a serai nearby.

It is currently sixty seven degrees Fahrenheit in Hyderabad. Precisely the same temperature as San Francisco, where I live. But it is in the middle of the night there, and will go up to the eighties shortly after lunch. Given that hot weather is far less bearable than it used to be, because of my legs, I shall need air conditioning. Do 'hotels' have delivery service?

NOTE: The most recent call was from "Jack Morrison" who wanted to tell me all about a new insurance programme that would economically take care of all my burial expenses.
I said that I was not interested in burial. He seemed disappointed.
He must keenly want me dead.

And I want biriani.

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Sunday, October 23, 2022


In the good old days, we'd give the little kiddies winkies an abundance of existential angst when they came to the door on Halloween. Can't do that any more, the little sh*theads have become all cynical. Now we simply feed them scrumptious hot pizza pockets, and terrify their parents when they hear about all the gluten, dairy, and meat. "My little Aundray was a vegan until you corrupted him, you evil man. He'll probably run away and join the circus after this!"
And little Aundray smiles a daemonic little smile.
He's tasted the world beyond Marin.
And man, it's good!

For five years now they've dressed as orange goblins.
Blue suits, red neckties, incontinence diapers.

Really ugly fake suntans.
It was terrifying.
This Halloween, do I go as Mitch McConnell or a little shepherd girl with fishnet stockings? Such a difficult choice to make, don't you agree?
Either way, I need a cattle prod.

Gotta go down to the old folks home and tell them their retirement is toast.
Republicans plan to steal their trick or treat money.
Slash Social Security, Medicare.

Spent all day in Marin. Man, that place is a hell hole.
It's filled with Karens and entitled hosebags.

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It is profoundly disturbing that so many people I know have not gotten their Bivalent booster shot by now. They plan to, they have approximate dates by which, but they haven't actually decided to get off their duffs and walk into the no-appointment necessary clinics. They're going to do it on such-and-such date, for sure. They just haven't done it yet.

No sense of urgency whatsoever.

Sheer gobloggery.

No, I'm not asking the Republicans. I'm quite fine with them getting sick and possibly dying. There's a vast red blob between the coasts that as far as I'm concerned can go and croak. We are not the same, we are not in this together. The pork industry and the insurrection proved that.

Several of the Republicans I know in fact got Covid the first time around, and survived.
Which was very disappointing.

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Saturday, October 22, 2022


"Is she going to sing 'superfreak' for the rest of eternity?" Nope, just this evening. See, the Asperger brain sometimes gets stuck on a groove. It doesn't help that her singing is rather "entertaining". One of my friends says that what is wrong with assertive women is that they sing the most terrible things.

I'm not at all sure about that. Superfreak is the anthem of my generation.


My apartment mate also likes Zadok The Priest. And the Radetsky March. All of these can be looked up on youtube. I suspect that this is a side of her with which her siblings may be entirely unfamiliar. Seeing as good Chinese girls usually don't display all their feathers while living at their parents' house. This is stuff that doesn't come out until they're browsing e-bay in front of their computer in the teeveen room with a stuffed turkey vulture on their lap.

[He's stuffed because he had some of my dinner.]

Meanwhile, I'm using paint on the computer to draw Mount Tamalpais.
The kind of place where you'll find one of the boys in your platoon face down in a rice paddy, having been whacked over the head and left there by "them". The Republicans fighting the legitimate government. Tattooed savages! He's deathly white, because he's dead and has been sucked dry by the leeches, which are now thick as your arm. I hear drumming muffled by dense foliage; the junior chamber of commerce is out tonight.

When I stepped out for a pipeful of tobacco after feeding the turkey vulture, three vacuous-looking party blondes were coming up the street bearing bottles of champagne. They saw me smoking and looked revolted. I had no problem avoiding them. Horrible creatures come out on Saturday evenings, and what with being an antisocial man of decent taste, I prefer the company of eccentric Chinese American women with Aspergers vastly over yuppie slag boozers. The latter are alas more common than the former.

On work days I am exposed to the natives of Marin County. Which reminds me of Burmese Days by George Orwell. Don't worry, I've had all my shots. My doctor has made sure that I'm fully vaccinated against all manner of illnesses, and there's chloroquine somewhere, in case malaria becomes an issue (rainy season) or I have to drink unboiled water.
Burning tobacco keeps the bugs away.

Savages, Jeremy, they're all savages!

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Friday, October 21, 2022


First smoke of the day was not a pipe, as one might have expected, but a Dunhill cigarette. Not enough time. When buying a bottle of wine for a dinner party, I also purchased a pack of ciggies. Sometimes a man needs to be degenerate. Gosh darn those things are expensive! The punitive built-in California tax on tobacco products assuredly is discouraging people from smoking (they should try that on crack cocaine and fentanyl), and keeping little kiddies safe (those should be taxed too).

The dinner party was lovely. My friend's new digs have a panoramic view of the city, everything from the towere of the Art Institute on one side all the way through Coit Tower at the other edge. Fisherman's Wharf, North Beach, Saint's Peter and Paul..... Everything tourists come to San Francisco to see, but without the tourists themselves.

My friend did NOT tell his dinner guests that they were part of the second coming, unlike Lauren Boebert recently, because there were no Republicans present -- he doesn't invite idiots -- and he is not an idiot himself. So it was quite sane and enjoyable.
With intelligent conversation and good food.

Both of which were probably absent from the event Lauren Boebert attended. As a side note, not related to the view OR the ciggies, I really think that a belief in the second coming ought to disqualify anyone from public office, because it's evidence of insanity and a greater likelihood of criminal tendencies.

Which, of course, are Republican hallmarks.

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Thursday, October 20, 2022


Apparently it was actually over ninety degrees yesterday, worse than I thought. That explains why I felt like crap till long into the night. During the middle of the afternoon it had taken me nearly fifteen minutes to walk two blocks, because my legs were throbbing, unmoveable.
I wish a pox on everybody who thought that was gorgeous weather.
Long after dark my legs and hands were still aching.
Any more days like that and I'm done.
Might check myself in.

It is hard to stress enough how extremely uncomfortable hot weather actually is.

And how much ill I wish on people who enjoy it.
Ruddy sadistic degenerates.
Woke up in the middle of the night to fog horns. Went outside with a pipe, short bowl.

Welcome relief.

An ambulance up the street was dealing with a medical emergency.
No haste. Not surprising. Poor bastard probably croaked.
Just remember, climate change doesn't exist.

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Wednesday, October 19, 2022


When it's hot in San Francisco, my entire body hurts, especially the neck and shoulders, as well as my legs. I can barely move outdoors, and I become a bitter hatefilled man. I wish to violently expunge the louts who exclaim "oh what beautiful weather", then jump up and down on their corpses and spit.

Except that I cannot. Any activity is excruciating, my physical coordination has gone wanky, and I'll have to save that for the cold season. Can you louts please clearly mark your foreheads so that I can get back to you on this? Thanks awfully.
Verbal attacks at random in the meantime.
They might not make sense.

It got to eighty five degrees today.

I did not used to object to such temperatures. That was before circulatory issues. And before I had nurtured my bitter hatefilled side, and let it flourish. Anything above eighty degrees is naked weather, but one cannot do that when wandering around Chinatown.
With a pipe after lunch, or while shopping.
One needs pockets.

Evenso, I had a jolly good time. While in agony. Met a friend after stopping at the grocery store, we talked about changes in the neighborhood, he asked if I still went to the same place, he had not seen me there in a while. Oh yes, was there today. Given that he's seventy six, I have to wonder about the woman he frequently lunches with. Wife, or daughter?
I did not ask. I'm not a pokey person.

What a man needs, irrespective of how insufferably hot it is, is good pipe tobacco, tea, and a rattan chair so that one may sit down and relieve the throbbing.
Tea can be found in Chinatown. Oh boy. Good pipe tobacco I've got plenty of. Sadly, there are NO rattan chairs placed at convenient locations around the old neighborhood, in the shade, where on can enjoy one's post prandial pipe while grumbling or ordering a cold milk tea over ice to refresh the aching carcass.


For the record, Meghan Markle is an enormous vile twat. My apartment mate is watching informational discussions of that person on youtube, and after all this time I am convinced that Meghan is a psychopath and an egomaniac, very probably morally bankrupt and ethically challenged. An opportunist, and a crass vulgarian.
But who the heck cares? She's unimportant.
A symptom.

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There are times when I regard aspects of my job with distaste. I can deal with the screaming and howls of despair that erupt frequently from the backroom, because it's sports related and those old 'forks' are just soiling their pants over "the game". Many times, however, they go on about how electric cars are a communist plot which will force everyone to use bathrooms that contrast with their biological gender, New York was a much better place when it was still run by Mafia dons, and all of "those people" were happy down on the plantation but the darn liberals went and spoiled all that.

Some of the very worst Third Reichians in Marin are Jewish.

Manifestly, Trump is the Messiah.

It's hard to ignore them when they are in full mating dance. They ruffle their gay confederate plumage, and puff out their chests. Hop, hop, hop, and pose! Inflate neck, loud screech! The only thing remarkable is when, like many cathartids, they poo on their feet for coolness rather than in their diapers.

Just pretend you don't notice the peculiar gibbering, dear, and select a pastry.
Do NOT establish direct eye or ear contact. It's dangerous.
You never know what will come out.
You're right in the middle of a bloody reptile zoo, and somebody is giving booze to these damned things. It won't be long now before they tear everyone to shreds.

I suggest the egg tart. It's great with tea.

My days off are really enjoyable. Surrounded by sane people. Well, I'm not sure that they are entirely sane. They now live here, which is dubious, and conversationally I'm not fully up to speed with them. But there is more of a brain evident, and the snacks are excellent.

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The waitress remembered that last week I had called to find out whether I left one of my pipes there inadvertently. I thanked her for her concern and reassured her that I had found it after all. I'm probably the only customer who smokes a pipe, as well as the only white guy who speaks Cantonese, so it's easy to remember me even if I can not remember a pipe.
Which had fallen out of my pocket into the folds of clothes to be laundered on the armchair in my quarters where no one ever sits because it's filled to the brim with my clothes.
I regularly do my laundry; a man wants to smell reasonably clean.
Even if he usually reeks of pipes and tobacco.

You'll probably be pleased to know that I shave and shower daily.
Even if I don't intend to be seen or have conversation.

Seeing as on my days off I will often eat in Chinatown, and my Cantonese conversational abilities are frightfully limited, social exchanges are not elaborate or extensive. I much prefer Chinatown because the San Francisco Cantonese will overwhelmingly mask up, unlike every other ethnic or cultural group in the city, who all want to catch Covid, suffer horribly for days, and infect children, immunocompromised people, and their nearest and dearest.
Same as suburbanites and tourists.

[Bus today: Chinese with masks, non-Chinese no masks. Nearly started cursing in Cantonese.]

Tuesday and Wednesday are always chachanteng days, often the same two, in the same order. Precisely like in Hong Kong, which remarkably is also what the pipe that was briefly missing reminds me of. Hong Kong. Central District, Shek Kong Airfield, our factories in Kwun Tong. Mody Road. Route Twisk. Hanoi Road. Victoria Harbour. North Point.
North Point is where many Shanghainese exiles settled after fleeing the mainland, in "Little Shanghai". Where somewhere faintly in the background the music from movies and famous nightclubs would often be heard, to remind them of what had once been.


When we walked into the deserted bar this evening, I mentioned an old song to the owner, because something reminded me of it. She put on several tunes from the Shanghai movie industry in the thirties, after which there were more than a dozen numbers by Teresa Teng. Punctuated by the theme songs of the sequels to The Bund (上海灘 'seung hoi taan').

One beautiful aire by Chou Hsuen, (龍華的桃花 Lónghuá dī táohuā) always makes me think of the thousands of students and factory workers killed by our "friends" there in 1927, as well as the Japanese internment camp for Westerners during WWII). But the song actually refers to the temple fair, as well as, hinted, love affairs. One key line is "politically suspect": 龍華的桃花都回不了家 ("longhua's peach blossoms cannot return to their families").

Peach blossoms: youth, life, and a lovely future.
Vitality, romance. Spring. Innocence.

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Tuesday, October 18, 2022


California proposition 31 seeks to outlaw flavoured tobacco products, by upholding and strengthening legislation temporarily in abeyance that was passed a while back.

It will also outlaw 90% of all pipe tobaccos, and lead to a whole bunch of pissed-off old men. Beware of pissed-off old men; they have less to live for.

Many pissed-off old men have vehicles and drive. Their grand kids are little assholes, and they hate crowds.
The great advantage of a beat-up old station wagon is that you can smoke in it, when your relatives insist you go outside to brave the pneumonia-inducing inclement weather with your pipe. If the heater works, you can cruise down the highway at forty miles an hour in the fast lane with your bowl of raspberry-frazzle black cavendish at full blast, go to the liquour store for some cheap vodka, then decide to elliminate the annoying putzes at Santa's Joy Town seasonal neighborhood street fair, permanently.

The same irritating blisters who do Renaissance Faires and Pirate Days are there, dressed like elves. Rick at 'Medicare Supplement Advisors', who makes spam calls to elderly people, is also there. You've already told him to blow it up his gand several times, whenever he calls, which seems to be about twice a week now. He's probably one of those vegan do-goodniks, practices yoga, and saves the planet. In between trying to steal the assets of old people. His supplemental gig as an elf lets him be around kids and stoned parents not paying attention. And dammit, there is NOTHING redeeming about that damned tinkly-poo Christmas music. Bunch of saccharine wankers.

That lot where it's held every year was where the old 'Psychadelic Giraffe' once stood, they served the BEST pot-roast and bacon burgers back in the day, before it was torn down to put up a mixed use commercial and residental development which the city hasn't approved yet because it has to include low cost housing and a rehab centre.

Darn pot-smoking yuppies! The ONLY reason why pot was legalized is because everyone thinks it's grown by little green men in the Amazon who recycle while hugging dolphins.

You know, I could really go for a tuna and cheese slider right now. The Psychadelic Giraffe made the BEST tuna sliders! They were delicious! We'd order a bunch of them after a show at the Warfield, Jefferson Airplane or Kool And The Gang, Elvis Costello, The Who, then wash it down with a bottle of Old Crow stolen from my aunt's medicine cabinet ......

Gotta do something about those horrid elves.
It's degenerate, is what.

Anyway, best way to keep the little cretins from vaping is to do something about their parents and those damned elves. This old station wagon can probably do over a hundred and twenty.

Vote NO on proposition 31.

By the way, here's a series of descriptions and reviews of Aromatic pipe tobaccos put out by Sutliff". ALL of them are aimed at the college-age and beyond demographic, NONE of them are sold in school vending machines, and the reason you've NEVER even heard of them is because we pipesmokers avoid you people. Most of the year we hide in the vacant lot where the old Psychadelic Giraffe once stood, sheltering from the wind behind the dumpster, out of sight out of mind. Except part of the year it's too cold. That's when we drive the station wagon. At forty miles per hour. In the fast lane. Dreaming of tuna sliders.

Bunch of damned wankers.

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