STORM CONDITIONS

As you know, coffee functions as a diuretic. As well as stimulating one and keeping one from falling asleep in the evening (a very useful circumstance) it eventually leads one to the loo. If, like me, coffee doesn't keep one up at night, that latter characteristic jumps into sharp focus. And hour or two after I've fallen fast asleep, I shall have to get up. And seeing as the body wakes up slower than the mind does, it's a laborious process.

Bit of a pain in the gand, really.
Well, not so much there.
Mutranali.

So I now abstain from too much caffeinated liquid in the evening, just a little stronger. It won't keep me from falling asleep. But with luck I can go all night without even once having to go.

When I was in my early twenties I could bound out of bed with alacrity, filled with vim, vigour, and the urge to pee and get it done with. Why, I was bouncing off the walls on the way to the bathroom. Yay! And then be asleep again seconds later.


Which brings me, more or less, to the weather that's been happening.

Here in California, it's been heatwave after heatwave and the usual apocalyptic wildfires out in the interior, columns of refugees fleeing with their computers, the family photo album, and the cat, seeking shelter in red cross shelters and on couches.

On the coastal strip we've barely noticed.
The fog is warmer than usual.


The American Deep South has been hit by at least one monumental hurricane. Temperatures have been either quite a bit hotter than usual in parts of Europe, or much colder. The war and slaughter zone (Mesopotomia and the Persian Gulf) have become almost uninhabitable.


Six years ago, Typhoon Mangkhut wreaked havoc in the Philippines and on the Guangdong coast. Two weeks ago I mentioned in conversation that this years typhoon season might be as bad. And that appears to be happening. It will be interesting to see what happens in the next few months.


Gotta go pee now.



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EATING LIKE A BIRD

Often on days off I head into Chinatown for lunch at a chachanteng. At some such places people watching can be very enjoyable, such as the two ladies with their chickens one table over (Hainan chicken and Portuguese chicken), the mother and her teen daughter at the next table (the girl didn't say a word, looked like she'd rather have aburger instead, and stared at her screen the whole time), and the small birdlike lady beyond that dining alone.
Who inhaled an entire steak (鐵板牛扒) with rice and gravy by herself.

NOTE: Hainan chicken (海南雞 'hoi naam kai') is a very fresh chicken poached gently to keep the flesh from stiffening, served with chicken flavoured rice, a bowl of plain chicken broth, and some ginger mince-mashed with rendered chicken fat. And, in S'pore or Malaysia, a sambal. Portuguese chicken rice (葡國雞飯 'pou kwok kai faan') is a mild coconut curry chicken on top of rice with a little cheddar shredded cheese melted on it under the broiler. Portuguese (葡國嘅), in this context, refers to Macau (澳門 'ou mun'), where it isn't actually from, precisely like Swiss chicken wings (瑞士雞翼 'seui si kai yik') have absolutely zero connection with Switzerland.

I had the club sandwich, as I often do at that place. Which, to me, is almost the absolute quintessence of "Chinese food". Seeing as the club sandwich is offered at every single chachanteng to which I go, is never ordered by tourists or suburbanites but frequently enjoyed by little old ladies, and pairs extremely well with Hong Kong milk tea.

Smoked my pipe afterwards as is my wont. Home in time for tea. Shortly after wich my landlady came up with a box of delicious pastries for my apartment mate and me. What's amazing about that is that she often does so, different excellent bakeries each time, but remains spry, slim, and birdlike despite her endless appetite for the good buttery sweet things in life.

My apartment mate is also spry, slim, and birdlike. But she works at it.
I too am reasonably trim, but that's because I don't over-eat.


So I had a flaky jam-roll for tea.
Don't worry, it was small.



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CONSIDER THE OWL

Sometimes you wake up, consider the time, and decide nah, best go back to sleep and get two more hours of rest before taking your pills, making a pot of coffee, and heading out for a morning smoke with your pipe because your apartment mate is, alas, a non-smoker and at too early an hour there are dogwalkers and early morning jogging freaks out there who are convinced that tobacco fumes kill puppies, little children, and the rainforest.
When all you want is some quiet time.

Some creatures are diurnal, some nocturnal. Some are between a rock and a hard place.


San Francisco, as everyone knows, is all about rescuing little puppies, cherishing children, and saving the rainforest. Plus anti-vaxxing, glutenphobia, rabid veganism, and transgender fetishists doing peculiar stuff to food and consenting adults while wearing leather straps.
This city hates tobacco, and wishes us smokers would all die.

Two or three generations ago, if you took the ferry at an early hour the deck would be filled with men in trench or rain coats with hats and newspapers smoking their pipes while perusing the stock market reports, the sporting green, and the society page.

Herb Caen had slithered under a rock to type juicy gossip columns.
After half a century of clacking away he stopped.
Expiring was a factor.

As you would expect, I still have a typewriter. It has not been used since the last century.

For a period when I lived over in Oakland, I would write school papers late at night, until my downstairs neighbor mentioned that it was hard to sleep with that going on. As I recall, every tenant in that building smoked tobacco, ate meat, and read books. Sadly, little kiddiewinikies nowadays do none of that. They grow up to be yuppie joggers, pet owners, and ruddy save the planet harpies living in the North East sector of San Francisco. The only plastic they ever use is a little bag for their dog at six o'clock in the morning and then twelve hours later.
Their precious purebreds are very regular, much like British public school boys.

I've told one of them that tobacco is a spiritual substance and part of my heritage, the pipe is a sacred object to my people, and I've spent years hugging dolphins in the rainforest.
I suspect doubtfulness on his part, damned cynic.


Perique is sacramental.
Potent juju.



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JUST PECKING MY WAY THROUGH LIFE

So I did not do as my routine demanded, and didn't go to my usual chachanteng, having left the house too late, and not wanting to inconvenience their staff so close to them getting off work after lunch. Instead I went to the new cheung fan place on Stockton -- the same one that 'R' said was no big deal, mow mei ga, hmmph -- and had a extremely enjoyable meal.
豬肉芫茜腸粉，鮮蝦同蔥腸粉 ('jyu yiuk yuen sai cheung fan', 'sin haa tong chung cheung fan'; rolled sheet rice noodle with pork and cilantro, fresh shrimp and chopped scallion).
Both with a drizzle of soy sauce and a squirt of Sriracha.
It was quite lovely.

After a brief conversation a woman there complimented me on how well I spoke Cantonese. That, too, was quite lovely. Especially because I think it's crappy.
But I'm good at getting food.

Upon returning home I gave some fresh katjang pandjang and peria (豆角，涼瓜) to the elderly Indonesian Chinese auntie downstairs. She can't move very well and seldom heads into Chinatown. And her mother and I used to speak Dutch with each other, so there is a connection. Not sure how she feels about salt fish (鹹魚), so I've never brought her that.
Her doctor may have advised her against it (as has mine, but I wasn't listening).

I'm quite pleased with a new snack I found while shopping; 芝士鹹蛋黃餅，北海島風味 (cheesy salted egg yolk biscuits, Hokkaido taste). Remarkable. I had no idea at all that the Japanese were into salted egg yolks. The cheese I knew about; there is such a variety of cheesy crunchy snacks crisps puffs and nibblies from Japan it boggles the mind.
They even feature as the favourite flavour in manga and anime.

In any case, it's yummy, and probably not good for you.

I'm always on the lookout for new fun eaties.

Curiosity leads to crunchy bits.



ADDENDUM: AT THE BAKERY FOR TEATIME

Mister 'S', who is an old friend of 'R', is, at this stage, deaf as a post. Which means that he only half hears what anyone says, jumps to conclusions about what was inaudible or unclear, and responds accordingly. Conversations with him are laborious and surreal. Sometimes quite berserk. His social life must be multifaceted and coruscating in consequence.

He doesn't speak more than a little bit of Chinese.
But half mis-understands it.
Very ABC.



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TIME TO SHOWER

Now that the folks at one of my regular chachanteng are home from their vacation, guess where I'm heading for lunch. I am a man of routines. Such things keep life stable, and in an unpredictable universe that's important. Who would ever have thunk that people wearing pantyliners on the right side of their heads (or sometimes both right and left) would, in the struggle for normalcy and common sense (pantyliners) be screaming bloody murder across the barricades at protestors opposed to Israel, the newsmedia, ableism, and gluten?

Gluten, for crapsakes! The building block of a healthy lifestyle!

And the pantyliners on the ears indicate an unwillingness to to listen. Which is why they have their knickers lustingly bunched about a fake hillbilly. Whose wife is "ethnic", (which is good!) and whose major opponent is "ethnic" (well, dammit!). Taping a pantyliner to the side of your head, it turns out, means that you are good and right and opposed to climate change (whose idea was that anyway?) and DEI and vaccines! You stand for common sense, and a return to the way things used to be.


While the stark raving majority on either side waves pitchforks and underwears at each other, some of us are darn glad that we are safely away from the tumult. We're just happy to be in the greatest wildfire zone in the country where life is peaceful and normal.

In celebration of fire, gluten, meat, and things such as vaccination, tobacco, disableism, and everything going to hell in a handbasket, I shall have a club sandwich, fries, and a cup of HK milk tea in a sane environment where I shall probably be the only Caucasian present as well as native speaker of both Dutch and English. Followed by a pipefull of tobacco, purchasing stuff with palm oil and third world crops unfairly traded, and bagged conveniently in petrochemical byproducts. Weekly shopping.

If any tourists, suburbanites, or people I do not particularly wish to converse with speak to me, the response will probably be sentences in a foreign language calmly and politely enunciated, telling them precisely what I think about them gibbering.


Might even search for bottles of durian essence. Which is meant for food purposes, if you like durian, but would probably be excellent as an all-natural environmentally safe biodegradable alternative to pepper-spray. Imagine trying to wash that out of your hair.

Folks will love you on public transit.



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MY FRIEND THE LITTLE WHITE PILL

One of the medications I take is amlodipine besylate. Which is a calcium channel blocker praescribed for high blood pressure, coronary artery disease, and some types of angina. Side effects may include swelling, tiredness, nausea and a stomach ache. If it's safe for people who are pregnant or breastfeeding is not at all certain, and no doubt you will be overjoyed that I am neither. Slightly over an hour after taking the pill my feet ache and hurt. Which may be the medication dealing with certain issues. It's at its worst and hour and a half afterwards, fades gradually, and is no longer noticeable three to four hours later. By which time once a week I'm enjoying my pipe in Chinatown. Which is also strongly disrecommended for people who are pregnant or breastfeeding.
Such as I'm not.


Actually, pregancy and lactation were never on the horizon.
Also, unlike many men my age, I don't have man-boobs.


Imagine all your favourite actors and musical stars of the male persuasion. When they were in their twenties and thirties, they were hot studmuffins oh golly yes. Once they crossed the forties, they started to sag and bloat (unless they were Keith Richards) and their sex appeal dried up, their faces become puffy, wrinkly, and jowly (unless they were Keith Richards) and liver spots and man-boobs were suddenly apparent.

Not so hot now, huh?


Just after I finished my smoke, the bookseller arrived. Once the required burger had been taken care of we went to the first dive bar for beer and hot tea, and headed over to karaoke bar following that for further refreshements; Irish whiskey and tea. Where one of the melodic stylings of our musically untalented fellow patrons was "Hotel California". Unsurprising. It's a nightmare of a song. Which should be banned. Aficionados of which should be whipped, castigated, excoriated, and put in stocks so that we may throw rotten fruit at them.

One of my routines upon lighting up the pipe that precedes the weekly pubcrawl is to check on the rats in the alleyway who feast on the greasy food scraps from the mahjong parlours, none of which have paid for garbage services and therefore dump their refuse at either end of the alley willy-nilly. Where it smells and stains the cement.

There were no rats there today. The only rats I saw were at the park, where they come out at twilight to forage in the grass safely away from the unstable individuals lying there.
They have more charm than the humans.
Boob men.


After the obligatory rendition of "Hotel California" by drunken yuppies, it cleared out a bit at the karaoke joint. Except for the singing, it was a very civilized evening.



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YOUR MOTHER DOESN'T WORK HERE EITHER

Up in the majestic stands of trees on these hills there are things you should not see. And in a well-ordered society there would be small shrines there where one could leave food offerings to placate the restless beings. Creatures that lurk and scurry and seek out the avocado skins you leave strewn about, or the discarded slice of pizza from that whole box you ordered late at night when you were "slightly" intoxicated. As, being an urban yuppie, you often are.

There used to be raccoons there. An older pair disappeared years ago -- they went up and down the streets late at night searching out openable basement windows or garbage shutes, alternating for efficiency -- but one of them couldn't dodge the vehicles with drunken drivers speeding, probably because of arthritis, and I haven't seen the other one in years. The last time I saw a raccoon was down in Chinatown on a shop awning opposite Hang Ah.

I am surprised I don't see more of them. Given that the city refuses to deal with the garbage situation by placing more receptacles at busy intersections or in crowded neighborhoods.
Or, for that matter, putting liners in the few of them it grudgingly leaves standing.

Maybe it's the rat poison keeps them away.
There is great faith in rat poison.
Keep your pets indoors.
Rat poison.

In the dark of early morning, before the fog lifts, there are things outside.

Down that shady alleyway between the older houses, with verdant greenery at the far end, would be a perfect place for a raccoon spirit shrine. With offerings of food. Fruit and pizza.

Raccoons, crows, and coyotes never really die. When the body fades, their spirits live on, frequently near human habitations where garbage is strewn about. Replete with uneaten leftovers and good things like pizza crusts, avocado peels, and fried chicken bones.

Altars to the raccoon spirits. Plus the crows and coyotes.

Perhaps near ends of alleyways in Chinatown where the mahjong parlours always dump their garbage there should be burning incense and candles to further lure the spirits. They'll happily deal with all those bags of food scraps. Unlike our local refuse service, which like the SF city administrators, believes that trash strewn about is the natural order of things.
And surely the possibility of disease is a small price to pay?

So colourful! And photogenic!


It's meaningful.



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BANK, CHEUNGFAN, ACCOUNTS

Having done some tasks yesterday, there are still a few things on my list remaining. Which will be punctuated by not doing anything useful. One of which is going over to a place in C'town for some cheungfan. Which will be the perfect breakfast. And it's a good place to people watch, as there are few to zero tourists there. Despite, or probably because, I live in a tourist mecca I am quite unfond of tourists. Many of whom are always clearly uncomfortable with things not being as they are back in wherever, no we don't have vegemite, sweet corn and canned meat are not a thing here, and frightfully sorry but we don't have frikandel, bamischijf, and the nasi goreng which you think all ethnic restaurants must have.


Nor, sadly, surströmming. It's on the same list as English black pudding and "real" Italian food. We don't have "real" Italians either. Those are all Swedes speaking funny.
Perhaps you should have stayed in the Midwest or Europe?

Please don't tell us how divine the surströmming pizza was in Rome.
Or the gehakteleberstrudel mit senf you had in Vienna.
We've already heard about the beer.

By the way, there is a lizard in the bidet. It has been placed there for your convenience. And the elevator in your hotel plays 'Torremolinos Torremolinos' softly because we know you're fond of it. There is no Watney's Red Barrel. We tried. Couldn't find it. Sorry.

As I said, cheungfan. Not, strictly speaking, touristenfähig.

Great with a drizzle soy sauce and some hotsauce.

Probably not as good as the "real" hamburgers they have in Germany, or the surströmming pizza you had in Rome or Cleveland or when you were exploring the fjords of Malmö. And our donuts are not at all like the donuts you found in Donetsk when you were on a guided tour of the ruins and the museums there, where they were invented. The Thai food? Ah, yes, you had REAL Thai food in Chiang Mai. And the bánh mì (oo, genuine dăm bông!) and bánh cuốn, bún chả, and phở which you ate on the banks of the perfumed river when you visited Huế to see the horrors that the Yanks had inflicted on the poor peace-loving people there was all so much better! Oh yes. Much better.

I'm sorry. There is nothing good to eat in San Francisco.
And we have no native handicrafts to buy.
You shouldn't have come.


Cleveland. Cleveland is nice. You could have gone to Cleveland.
Or Cincinnati. They have real pizza there.
Plus surströmming.


Europeans and Midwesteners love surströmming.
We know this now. And we are very sorry.
Everything edible is surströmming.



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BASICALLY CHICKEN AND RICE

More power to that young lady with the big behinds. This is NOT big behind shaming, they seem to fit her, and they are on top of sturdy legs, and even though she is feminine and shorter than myself I wouldn't want to encounter her angry in a dark alley late at night.
She looks very Irish and would probably wipe the floor with me. Her more Americanized kinsperson who lives up the block has a less "kill all the viking invaders" pysique.
But often looks just as fierce or determined.

She marched past while I was outside smoking. My earlier pipeful had had me encountering Russell, who seems to be fully recovered mostly from the pneumonia he had been stricken with four months ago, and wished to complain at length about every single restaurant in his neighborhood including a new one, as well as the coffee at one place where they don't do American slop but instead make a halfway decent cup.

Personally, I like their HK milk tea. Strong and bitter. And every place he complained about is perfectly fine as far as I'm concerned -- having eaten at many of them since May, and all of them several times over the last few years -- so it's extremely likely that his constant bellyaching is a mental gymnastic which stimulates serotonin production.
Bluntly put, he's happiest when he's miserable.

I had filled the pipe while waiting for my food to come. At a place which he is not at all impressed by. He says it's all tasteless. So so.

MIXED VEGETABLES AND CHICKEN WITH RICE

For a place wich isn't that good (apparently), it was jampacked when I went in. All of C'town needed sustenance at that hour. Including a young mandarin speaking couple at the next table who had ordered so much that they left half their food untouched, an elderly couple the female component of which seemed incredibly out of sorts which was the male component's fault because he wasn't doing anything about it, two old ladies gorging themselves on claypot dishes which sizzled and smelled wonderful, and several old men eating alone and being very happy about that.

Normally I wouldn't have ordered 什菜雞球飯 'jap choi gai kau faan'). It seems unimginative. So very ... chopsuey-ish. which is exactly what 什菜 means. Chopsuey over rice with a juice rich in garlic fragments. Probably also cornstarch and rice wine, but no soy sauce.
A white person might not have been able to identify it.

It was very, very good. Russell would have enjoyed bitching about it.

What I also enjoyed was the Chinese serial on the telly. In which food played an enormous part, along with a young woman with a horrible temper, her aged papa whom she respected very much, and two emotional young men whose connection to anybody was unclear but if the subtitles had been more legible from my seating distance that would have been less opaque and much more understandable.
A banquet. A gift of fruits. Live fish for the pot. Noodle dishes. A late afternoon meal, some lovely looking homemade congee elsewhere, and a plate of glazed looking sauced stalky vegetables which I believe were kangkong (空心菜 'hung sam choi', 通菜 'tung choi', 蕹菜 'ung choi'; ipomoea aquatica, water spinach).

All in a modern-day setting. A city with tall buildings and broad avenues. China today looks a lot different than how I do not remember it, never having been there.

The key ingredients in any good Chinese teevee series are family drama, lots of crying, and tonnes of food. Especially the food must be well-cinematographed.



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MENTAL THUMBS

Several years ago I had a coworker down the peninsula who would leave work related voicemails on people's answering machines all weekend. Which, of course, we learned to ignore. Odd thoughts would come upon her in the middle of the night. Procedure-related thoughts. Fax machine placement thoughts. She couldn't write work emails from home, and the cell-phone had not been invented yet. Seeing as my paging device was the number I had let work know about, which displayed the number from which a call came, I learned to simply delete without listening. We all thought she was heading off the deep end. She ended up working for a law office and I hear she was very happy there.

Which shows that law offices are unhealthy work environments.

Last night at around two thirty in the morning I almost became her. There are several devices at work that are controlled by remotes. Press the right buttons and everything is fine with the world. Don't press them and things are wrong, out of whack, off somehow, and subtly disturbing in a way that you couldn't quite put your finger on.

I remembered that I had put one of those clickers temporarily somewhere where that clicker doesn't go and no one will find it unless I mention it. So I suppose I should call them -- I'm off today with no intention of going in -- but doing so in the mide of the night, or even leaving a voicemail at any time regarding the crucially, earthshakingly important on-off button device, would mark me as berserk and possibly losing my marbles.

Which might actually be the case, but I don't want them to know that.

Besides, one thing I've noticed is that after two or three days at work, because of the nature of the job and the vast amounts of tea which I've drunk to stay hydrated, my body chemistry is somewhat off kilter and I think differently. It takes at least a morning -- several hours -- of sitting around in my jammies and twiddling mental thumbs, for my head to be stable again.


Being a sane balanced individual is dependent on chemistry, environment, and perspective. To put it differently, a starving person in a burning dumpster filled with recently discarded pastries in a shopping area which is rapidly flooding because of a levee-breach may not make the most rational decisions ever. Neither will the raccoons and the grizzly bear that are in there with her. None of them did before, that's how they all ended up in there.
Stuffing themselves with black forest cake.

Someone ought to design a new type of dumpster which can float and is steerable.
The world is crying out for that.


I am temporarily charmed by the image of the Sacramento River Delta studded by a fleet of styrofoam dumpsters crewed by wildlife and stoned party blondes fleeing burning shopping malls. It's sort of Gilligan's Island Meets Mad Max.
All gorging on cake.

The most important individual is a sugar-crazed grizzly bear.
That's almost a metaphor for life.



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WHEN THE BUS LEAVES ...

On major problem with Marin County and its denizens is that they do not understand how bus schedules work. Which means that the closer it comes to the bus leaving, the more brusque I shall be with people who are blithely unaware of operating hours.

After the doors close it's my time. And there is nothing, NOTHING in any way appealing about missing the bus and being stuck in the purulent cyst on the filthy backside of a loathsome dieased mutant which is Marin County for an extra hour.

You may expect my attitude at such a moment to be venomous and toxic.
It is not unreasonable to expect a sudden bout of rabies.


What you faced in the country club locker room, or while you were servicing some Karen, is as nothing compared to what may happen to you if you don't leave at the proper time. And make no mistake; the colonel won't back you now, you disgusting bourgeois spoiled brat.
By the way, there might be a rattlesnake in the passenger seat.
Snakes find expensive cars very comfortable.

Once my work is over for the day, I do not wish to spend on moment more in Marin.

I despise the place.



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AN IMAGINARY TEA ROOM

It would appear that I am out of touch with my contemporaries. Hugely. People have been mentioning pools, and how lovely they are during this hot weather, how they like to disport themselves nearly naked in the cool cool water. Whereas all I can think of when it's eighty degrees outside is an airconditioned indoor enviroment with beverages, tasty snacks, and semi-twilight, cool, dark. Quiet. Milk tea of any range of temperatures: hot. Or cold.
A tall iced drink next to an ashtray perhaps, sweating into a doily.

A dish of ice cream. Or a bowl of pudding.
Some lovely glazed biscuits.


Is it tea time yet?


The problem with pools is the strong chemicals to keep them from reeking of body exudates from the teenagers and athletic types. And whatever that crap is that so many people smear in their armpits with gay abandon and spatulas, or spray thickly on their coiffures.
Plus spilled drinks, and mildew from the last time they wore that swimsuit.

Whereas linen clothes, rattan furniture, drawn blinds, effective airconditioning .....
You can smoke a pipe or read a mystery novel while there.
Oh hey, cucumber sandwiches!

No cigars. It is axiomatic that cigars are more appropriate for the environs of stagnant over-used swimming pools and Vegas gaming salons where Midwestern housewives blow their retirement funds on the nickel slots.

They spent all afternoon steeping in the turbid waters, dropping their cigarette ashes into the swirling foam, while little kiddies screamed and hollered. Now they quietly feed the insatiable hunger of one-arm bandits. Who brings their kids to Vegas? And why? Do they plan to sell them into slavery at the meat packing plant? Find them a position in the circus?


Good lord, why is this dog paddling around in the swimming pool?


Pipes, A tin of tobaco, cups of tea, and a good book.
Plus airconditioning and electric fans.
That's the ticket.



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THE TEMPTING BUFFET

One of the great things, truly great, is the amount of naked skin during a heat wave. Naked white female skin. Shoulders, backs, stomachs, arms and legs. A tempting moist feast for the mosquitoes that breed in little stands of water in shaded areas. Such as around pumps, drip and catch containers, water traps underneath air sucking machinery, and cooling units.
West nile fever, zika, encephalitis, dog heartworm, and even (rarely) malaria.

Because you just know the little buzzy beasties can smell you.
And your vast expanse of soft naked flesh.
Moist in the heat.

On Friday I cleared out one possible breeding pool. Not because I was in danger -- not living in Marin County surrounded by boobies I am relatively safe -- but because such things in addition to mosquitoes lead to rot, mildew, chironomids, and conenose bugs.

As well as moss, mold, and fungal infections in odd places.
Parts of the body you don't scratch enough.
Scratching aerates.


Oh, and jungle rot. Quite common in San Rafael and Novato.

Dessicants, drainage, and DDT. Good for controlling typhus and malaria.

Still haven't found a way of dealing with the natives, but as long as their hot tubs are fully functioning, and their wine cellars stocked up, they appear to be quiescent.
Besides, many of them appear to be medicated.


A large Swiss Army knife and disinfecting foot powder go a long way to assuring comfort when in Marin. No need to pack the machete. Yet. But keep it in mind.

The hot season ends when the rains come.
October, sometimes November.



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THE ROAD THROUGH

There was an alarm sounding very far off. Must be something happening at the police post. 'Naarp, naarp, naarp'. And a five or six second pause. Then, 'naarp, naarp, naarp' again. It went on for ten minutes, while Mr. Kie distracted us with more cheung fan. Mmm, shrimp! Great with sweet chili sauce! Unspoken: don't take that road, there is always something there. Well, yes. But if we want to get to the city we'll have to, and keep our fingers crossed. As we got back into the pickup I wondered why I had to sit under the tarp in the open cargo bed, and I gradually woke up.

Some yuppie's car is getting broken into further up the hill. And with too much covering me, including the down comforter, it feels tropical. There is light outside.


I remembered the silkiness of the cheung fan at that new place in Chinatown. Steamed pork sheet noodle with cilantro (豬肉腸粉, 同芫茜). It had been creamy in the mouth with a drizzle of soy sauce and dribbles of hot sauce. Rather a pity they don't do HK milk tea.

Still, I will be going there again. I'm tempted to do so next week.

I'll have to find somewhere else for the beverage.

It's on Stockton Street, where Little Paris used to be. Which closed slightly over a month ago. Quite the end of an era. We're now down to four Viet places. We have also lost a few of the chachanteng, and one of the remaining ones is still using paper plates and cups and plastic cutlery, which they started doing during the pandemic. But there are now more opportunities for lovely steamed dumplings, and there is also a place for Hong Kong beef brisket noodle soup (牛腩麵湯 'ngau naam min tong').

Things change. I suppose its time to revisit Sai's and see how they're doing in their new location. It's slightly closer to C'town, two blocks from where they used to be. They probably have bún thịt nướng chả giò (燒豬肉春捲米粉 'siu chyu yiuk chun kuen mai fan'; barbecued pork and spring rolls vermicelli). Which I haven't had in a while. Great for a lazy afternoon with a glass of chilled coffee.

By the way, beef noodle soup in any of its forms is not strictly speaking proper food as Northerners understand it. Southerners, brigands, former soldiers, ethnics, and rebels.
Le goût des gens scandaleux.



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THINKING ABOUT THE LITTLE BALLS

In the two weeks since July Fourth there have been odd booming sounds in the middle of the night, as the local midthirties something fratboy teenagers give in to their explosive instincts and set alight their carefully hoarded fireworks. Which they held onto for nearly two whole weeks. When they were still living in the frozen wastelands of Minnesota and New Hampshire, they managed to keep a snowball in the freezer for nearly a month.

What will they do when the typhoons hit? Put aside a bucket of water?


It's a good thing there are never any floods on Nob Hill. I don't think I could handle fratboys or alligators swimming down the street and popping out of storm drains.

And definetely not just after my first cup of coffee when I'm walking around the neighborhood dodging chihuahuas and those dogs that look like space aliens. French bulls. Speaking of which, why do you never see crossbreed offspring of those two repulsive types?
Do they perhaps find each other as nasty as we find them?

There are little smears all over the pavement.

It's a pity there are no floods.
Or Typhoons.

The past two weeks have been rather windy in the afternoons, which makes smoking a pipe outdoors challenging. There have been times when I've caught myself muttering how I hate this weather before correcting myself; at least it's not like Stockton or Modesto, where the temperature will be over a hundred by mid-day, and southern belles will wilt in the heat moaning pitifully in a tragic voice "whatever shall we do, whatever shall we do?"

In SF it's probably going to be sixty five or sixty six degrees today.

No need for ice cubes in the bowl of oatmeal.

Tapioca pudding popsicles.



Codicilary note: Oatmeal is not something I eat, that's purely for constipated Scotsmen and similar sufferers. Large tapioca balls, such as in boba drinks, are nearly indigestible; you'll need that oatmeal. Sometimes I put tiny tapioca balls in a cold beverage though.



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WHERE DUTCHMEN LIVE

Today was a day for overdoing it. Chinese food, Chinese snack, plate of Mexican nummies. That last courtesy of my landlady who brought up a huge amount of food, what with being a Cantonese American and consequently worried that there might be starvation, the counter and opposite of which is excess. My apartment mate does exactly the same thing.
It's ... a deeply rooted cultural characteristic.

Which, in a way, explains why I took a pound of daun sawi hidjau, a jar of tausi djiang, and a bak tsang over to the Indonesian Chinese lady in the downstairs front apartment. If she doesn't cook all the daun sawi no biggie, and I'm sure she will enjoy the bak tsang.
Who doesn't like bak tsang?

The Chinese food was lunch at a chachanteng, the snack was tea time at a bakery.


And all of this prompts the question what is necessary for civilized Dutch American life in the United States. Totally ignoring the settlements in the Midwest, because those were simple people, religious conservatives, and the near-Nazi element which couldn't hack it in post-war society, warmly welcomed by like-minded bigots and donkey-holes already here.

Basically, you need ketjap manis (or at least soy sauce), chilipaste, shrimp paste, fish sauce, ground coriander, turmeric, nutmeg or mace, dried shrimp, good mustard, real cheese, rice, rice noodles and wheat noodles, and fresh honest bread. Plus a variety of vegetables, and a decent butcher shop. Galangal and lemon grass would be nice. But aren't essential.

Much of all that can be found in any East Asian neighborhood ("Chinatown"), and the rest requires a sophisticated cosmopolitan community.

None of which exist in the Midwest.


Recipes for Dutch junkfood (frikandel and kroket) can be found on the internet, and if there is an East Asian neigborhood there are undoubtedly restaurants where something approximating Dutch Indonesian dishes may be had.


Flavour increases the further you go from Iowa.


Conversely, if you love ranch dressing, and cottage cheese, then the Midwest is your promised land, and you should stay there.



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ABSOLUTELY A THING OF BEAUTY

In discussion with the bookseller yesterday evening, I mentioned that I owned over a dozen Comoy Blue Ribands. The last time those were produced there were only a handful released world-wide, and they were considered rare. Company promo literature stated that less than one in a thousand blocks of briar was suitable for a Blue Riband pipe. Three of them came from my father (I had lusted after them since my teens, he gave them to me in his last year, they never leave the house, because I don't trust people and the outside world that much). Some of them I got via Drucquers, some via Marty Pulvers when he still ran his shop.
One of them is mine only temporarily, and has never been smoked.

I have promised it either to my girlfriend if I end up with a sensible woman who smokes a pipe and likes decent tobacco especially when she's made herself comfortable with a good book and a cup of tea, or to my firstborn when he or she graduates with honours from University. They'll be the first to smoke it, and break it in.

PLEASE NOTE THAT BOTH OF THOSE PEOPLE ARE ENTIRELY IMAGINARY AT THIS POINT; I HAVE NOT BEEN IN A RELATIONSHIP FOR SEVERAL YEARS, AND HAVE DECIDED THAT AS A NON-TATTOOED SNOOTY DISLIKER OF LORD OF THE RINGS AND A CRUSTY DUTCH AMERICAN BESIDES THE CHANCES JUST AREN'T GOOD ENOUGH TO VENTURE ONTO THIN ICE.

And there are no children.

Furthermore, Dutch American women with a thing for Cantonese and Indonesian foods and languages, OR Cantonese American women with a thing for the Dutch are more than a little bit rare. The majority of Dutch American women have either religious relatives or outright Nazis in the family woodpile in any case, and too many Cantonese American women either have a shoe or handbag fetish, or a very Anglo attitude. And women of all backgrounds have dietary insanities like no gluten no meat no spices no icecream or cake no properly cooked food and no food fun unless it's in the approved of manner plus apple cider vinegar turmeric strange fruits from spiritual people in the Amazon and miracle honey. These conflict, you will understand, with my weird dietary habits, and make eating together virtually impossible.

That Comoy Blue Riband will never be smoked. Along with a few other lovely pipes set aside. San Francisco is a jungle. The rest of the country is a wasteland.

[Women I know socially here are all lesbians, or religiously observant, or transgender. Or coworkers. Or my ex. Or in stable relationships so off limits entirely, and possibly all of the above. So decidedly 'no'. Yeah, um.]


Anyhow, I shall be heading out soon to have lunch by myself. Something not healthy, and the nutritionist at the hospital would absolutely disapprove. There will be chilisauce on top of that. Then I'll light up a pipe (probably a Dunhill shellbriar filled with a Virginia blend), an action of which my previous regular care physician and almost all the ladies I know would disapprove, and go food shopping. Rice noodles, throat lozenges, a new hotsauce or sambal, cookies, and fresh vegetables. Might have a cup of milktea and a snackipoo afterwards, as a preamble to smoking another pipe (see aforementioned disapproval).


Is there such a thing as Hello Kitty Hotsauce?


When I get home I'll spend the rest of the evening reading Wikipedia, on-line dictionaries, recipes, and odd bits of history, while my apartment mate watches Father Brown (a British mystery series) or zit-popping videos. Tea may be involved. Also, in her case, a bag of cheesy chips. I do not want to hear about what's going on at her office.
But I'll be patient and listen. She works with dingos.



Might wander around the neighborhood with a pipe later before going to bed.



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AUNTIE, IT'S TIME FOR FRANK SINATRA!

It was a little brisk outside; clouds overhead and a coldish wind. That probably is what is keeping the streets free of drunken mid-twenties white people. Along with their fascination concerning the reprehensibles love-fest in Milwaukee. Which reminds me of someone I used to know years ago, who frequently brought impressionable tourists back to his apartment in the evening under religious pretexts and would do unspeakable things with them.
A very Christian degenerate. As many Christians are.


Probably a good thing, as Milwaukee does not have much to tempt people.
And the drug-scene quite likely leaves a lot to be desired.
Lots of Xanax, Prozac, and horse tranquilizer.
Also steroid-induced psychosis.

Plus the food is bloody awful, because it's Milwaukee for crapsakes, middle of damned well nowhere; no hotsauce, ketchup and insta-coffee are in the ethnic food section (next to real cheese), and they have to fly in lutefisk from Minnesota.
The State Vegetable is corn.

And you thought it was Billy Graham, didn't you?

They have beer. They need it.

We did not go to the usual beer place this evening, as it was crowded. The karaoke joint was far less so, although two white women were getting drunk and singing, loudly and bad, but after a few frightful numbers they left, and a young Chinese American handed a slip to the woman behind the counter, and sang better and at a more aceptable volume. It's ALWAYS time for Frank Sinatra, by the way. Always! Especially if the alternative is The Eagles.

The two songs that out-of-towners always do at the karaoke bar are "I left my heart in San Francisco" (which sucks) and "Welcome to the Hotel California" (which sucks and blows).

Earlier I had smoked my pipe while wandering down to the usual intersection. A red Virginia mixture with some nicely aged leaf and a touch of Perique. It was a very pleasant and quiet half hour. There had been no singing then. Just the occasional stumbling wreckage.


What this city needs, obviously, is a lot more Xanax and Prozac.
Not so much horse-tranquilizer.



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HEATED RHETORIC

The Repubican convention is barely into its second day and I'm already sick of the blovation and pandering. The whole performance reminds me of nothing so much as a wife swapping fornication frenzy at a cult compound or in a biker bar restroom. Meanwhile, the democrats are falling over themselves apologizing for occasionally using intemperate language.
Apparently they "demonized" the bloated fascist. Boo hoo.


Get over yourselves, boys. And he has two ears.

A Waspy-Wasp-Wasp Republican whose daddy bought him the AR 15 nicked him.


Besides, it's not like the Repubs are strangers to violent rhetoric. Or even actual violence.


"Some liberal somewhere is gonna say that sounds awful. Too bad. Get mad at me if you want to. Some folks need killing."
------North Carolina Lieutenant Governor Mark Robinson


"Hang Mike Pence!"
------MAGA mob


"But we broke into the Capitol. We got inside. We did our part. We were looking for Nancy to shoot her in the frickin’ brain."
------MAGA stalwart Dawn Bancroft


"If I don't get elected, it's going to be a bloodbath for the whole -- that's going to be the least of it. It’s going to be a bloodbath for the country."
------Donald Trump


"It is too bad that your mother is an ugly communist whore. If she doesn’t quit or resign before the end of the year, we will kill her.
But first, we will kill you!"
------Anonymous


The list of Republicans calling for hanging Obama and putting elected officials in front of firing squads is nearly endless. If anyone can be accused of inciting violence, it is the Republicans, Fox News, and Christians.

Obama ain't coming for your guns. Operation Jade Helm isn't taking over Texas and appointing a dictatorship over the freedom-loving barbecue snarfing lone star state.
Your mom can still use the ladies room. There are no death panels.
Nor FEMA camps and black helicopters.


And controlling what people say or read? That's a Republican thing.
Mostly dingbats in Florida, Louisiana, and Georgia.
Bunch of wankers.



By the way, grits should be outlawed. They sap your manhood.
Grits lead to syphilis, trailer parks, and crime.
It's a well-established fact.
Statistics!




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FAMILIAR HEATH

One of the places to which I go in Chinatown is looking more like a bordello anteroom than ever before. The taste expressed, such as it is, makes bad-taste auntie with the blue and pink leopard spot leggings seem like a rank amateur. Oo-wee! But I like the owner. He's a good man, his milk tea is excellent, and he makes interesting snackies. So far be it from me to speak ill of his venture. Instead, I will continue to patronize his fine establishment while keeping my eyes deliberately out of focus for most of my stay there.

It's an excellent preamble to smoking a W.Ø.Larsen.
For some reason tourists are scared to enter.
Might be because of the décor.
Très Européen!


Please imagine a country hostelry precisely where the cuisine changes from electric green mushy peas to deep-fried Snickers bar. Greasy fish and sheep gut compote on both sides of that border for several miles. Eventually civilization fades out and unintelligible heathen gibberish takes over. No, not Yorkshire. It's worse. Much much worse.

Some mighty fine pipe tobacco comes from there.
As well as potted ptarmigan.

Now also, apparently, 粵式早茶 ('yuet sik jou chaa'; Cantonese style morning tea). As was advertised by a poster showing scrumptious dim sum items. I have not thought of that place as a possible early morning destination. As of tea time yesterday, I now shall do so.

Dim sum is the perfect fortification a man needs for facing the savage hordes.
That being both tourists and techo-yuppies in San Francisco.
As well as Fox News fanboys.



Water flows downhill from the mountains, eastward, gathering detritus and pollution as it goes. By the time it hits Milwaukee it is a densely putrid mass of sewage, both loud and tumultuous in addition to toxic. There are loathsome orcs and ogres swimming in it.
Perfect for Milwaukee. A veritable sludge bucket of a place.
Most segregated city in the country.
Unclean.




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FRUITFUL MEETING

A number of years ago I mentioned that the total absence of a love life of any sort weighed on me. Before that I had had a love life -- which lasted for several very happy years -- and not having anyone to eat dinner with or NOT accompany to the symphony was a bleakness. Friends suggested alleviations and solutions. Most of which if analysed would have meant changes equal to or greater than a sex-change and joining a cult.

Yesterday was the meeting of the local pipe club. Many of the members of which are of my age, roughly, with similar bad habits and tastes. Some of whom are actually in relationships. Two of them are married. No, we did not ask them what their secret was. One of them we couldn't because he and his wife were off somewhere doing something. I'm sure he had told her weeks (even months or years) before of the regularly scheduled meetings, which occur once a month and last for less than three hours. Which we all look forward to, because it is both good and refreshing to share time with people like oneself.
The other married member brought the eaties.

There was alcohol there. A few bottles.
Single malt Scotch. Rare Bourbon.

As you would expect, I drank plenty of tea. Which is the extent of my indulgence in cheering beverages nowadays. Goes with both Virginia blends and Balkan mixtures. Perhaps not so much with aromatics (only one participant) or Burley concoctions (best with bathtub gin and clear distilates from your cousin Bubba presently in the federal penitentiary we're praying for an early release on good behaviour because he leads the weekly Bible class).

On my days off I usually head into Chinatown for a cup of hot Hong Kong Milk Tea and something to eat. It's an escape from the wider world, and therapeutic.
Also stress-free. Quite enjoyable.

People in Chinatown don't object to my smoking a pipe on the public street, because they either have a dear relative who still smokes or they are that relative, and they mind their own business, or they are tourists from parts of the world where people smell very much worse and do perfectly awful things habitually so a whisp of burning leaves doesn't register.

Plus it's well policed there. Unlike the rest of the city.
Or Berkeley and Oakland.


A dozen pipe smokers attended. And a good time was had. I should have offered the designated drivers a cuppa from my stash, I realize now belatedly.

At one point I explained an unusual product to two others, who committed to trying it some time. The Beast, comprised of 51% Perique (an anaerobically fermented tobacco)that has been soaked rum for a week, augmented by red Virginia Cavendish and black, with a smidge of fire-cured leaf. Supposedly a tweaked version of what Aleister Crowly enjoyed. Seeing as he was a certifiable freak who dabbled in black magic and occult practices, and probably liked ripping the wings off baby daemons, it's a peculiarity. Not likely to be anyone's desert island blend, though it is .... amusing. Normally Perique is only used condimentally, no more than ten percent max, best as three to six percent of a blend. I've smoked a few bowls of it. From an opened sample tin, because I'm not going to purchase any.
I enjoyed it, and it didn't ghost my pipe.

Note: a few years ago I smoked a pipeful of something that was twenty percent Perique, not rum-soaked, which though quite pleasant left my mouth feeling both raw and processed. And two talented blenders have assured me that ten percent max is bullpucky. But they're both eccentric, so let us disregard that.

At one point there were three of us standing around yesterday with Dunhill shellbriars in our mouths; two Balkans, one VaPer. Two fat straight billiards, one bent.

Ecumenical. Or Catholic. Depends on your definition.


The smoker of the aromatic mixture is conservative, as you would expect. Ex-army.


The three tea drinkers are all intelligent and liberal.

Air force and the navy were also there.
As well academia and industry.
No women, sadly.


The Beast, by Cornell & Diehl, is the kind of pipe tobacco you smoke when performing an exorcism. It will remind the daemon of losing its wings. And give it night sweats, much like what Nigel Farage has when he remembers being deservedly assaulted with a milk shake.
Fruity Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.
You should buy a tin.



AFTERWORD: That there were no women in attendance dismays me. This must change. We're all socially polished and on the whole excellent conversationalists.
And we smell good. Plus there is tea, and whisky.
Also cheese and pâté.

TOBACCO INDEX


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