In discussion with a friend over the holiday I defined fairly precisely what I want in life. And, alas, it isn't anything unusual, but instead veers towards completely mundane predictability.
WHAT WANTED?
A female companion younger than myself -- though possessed of a maturity and individuality quite rare in someone of that age -- and besides that, a fortune, as well as more books. Plus material things.
I have material things, but I would like more. Much more.
Basically: I want love, wealth, and comfort.
Oh, and world peace.
That last one is a politically correct afterthought. Frankly, world peace is probably quite impossible, but at this time of year it is obligatory to mention world peace. You get Brownie Points if you mention it.
So there you have it. I want everything. Plus world peace.
I am greedy and superficial.
WORLD PEACE!
I am not in a relationship at present.
Nor am I wealthy, or even close.
There is NO world peace.
When I juxtapose these 3 things in this manner, it seems obvious that they are linked. Possibly this triple lack is causally connected. Without this, there cannot be that. If I had a relationship, there might be world peace.
And perhaps I'd be so rich that I could fully enjoy both of the other things.
But because I am single, I cannot be counted rich.
And world peace is unlikely. Maybe impossible.
Actually, I also want immortality.
In addition to world peace.
I'll settle for halfsies.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Showing posts with label Bah humbug. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bah humbug. Show all posts
Friday, December 27, 2013
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
THEY'RE ASLEEP, NOW IS OUR CHANCE!
Today marks the longest night of the year. No, not the solstice -- that was a few days ago, and was technically the longest night -- but the festival segment known as "greedy anticipation".
All over the country, little children will secretly steal the instant coffee, so that they can stay up past midnight and ambush the fat man.
Whether or not he survives the ordeal is dependent on how well their parents reared them, but what is certain is that his big bag of goodies is theirs. Maybe the cookies and milk are laced with mom's psycho pills from the medicine cabinet, to stack the deck.
But the big boy is going down!
They've waited.
Given that I consider red an unsuitable colour for corpulent gentlemen (imperial purple is SO much better!), and both he and his reindeer can't seem to find my house with their damned eyes closed, I do not have a dog in this fight. Or a deer in this headlight. Knock yourselves out.
Waterboard the old sot for all I care.
But no witnesses!
If no one knows what happens, it will keep the dream alive for at least another year.
To all my Christian friends: Merry X box.
To all crass materialistic people: ditto.
To Krampusites: you need help.
To my Jewish friends: have a good night, filled with lots of Chinese food and chess. Everything will soon be normal again. To all other ethnic and spiritual traditions out there who have been curious about a cult that worships a tubby lardbut with a beard, and spends themselves into the poor house religiously: count your blessings.
Enjoy the lentils and tofu.
To the Cossacks: PLEASE don't borrow the station wagon for a late night jaunt to Bayonne. You're drunk, just like last year, and in no condition to drive. You'll crash the vehicle, or overturn it in a snow bank. We love you too much to let that happen. Plus you're likely to leave something on the stove, and trust me, absolutely nothing smells worse than burning cabbage soup and carbonized kasha. Let it go.
Turn everything off, and take the bottle to bed with you.
To all plump and juicy roast-worthy fowl: this time, take off the safety when trying to fire that thing.
Good luck.
Happy holiday, y'all.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
All over the country, little children will secretly steal the instant coffee, so that they can stay up past midnight and ambush the fat man.
Whether or not he survives the ordeal is dependent on how well their parents reared them, but what is certain is that his big bag of goodies is theirs. Maybe the cookies and milk are laced with mom's psycho pills from the medicine cabinet, to stack the deck.
But the big boy is going down!
They've waited.
Given that I consider red an unsuitable colour for corpulent gentlemen (imperial purple is SO much better!), and both he and his reindeer can't seem to find my house with their damned eyes closed, I do not have a dog in this fight. Or a deer in this headlight. Knock yourselves out.
Waterboard the old sot for all I care.
But no witnesses!
If no one knows what happens, it will keep the dream alive for at least another year.
To all my Christian friends: Merry X box.
To all crass materialistic people: ditto.
To Krampusites: you need help.
To my Jewish friends: have a good night, filled with lots of Chinese food and chess. Everything will soon be normal again. To all other ethnic and spiritual traditions out there who have been curious about a cult that worships a tubby lardbut with a beard, and spends themselves into the poor house religiously: count your blessings.
Enjoy the lentils and tofu.
To the Cossacks: PLEASE don't borrow the station wagon for a late night jaunt to Bayonne. You're drunk, just like last year, and in no condition to drive. You'll crash the vehicle, or overturn it in a snow bank. We love you too much to let that happen. Plus you're likely to leave something on the stove, and trust me, absolutely nothing smells worse than burning cabbage soup and carbonized kasha. Let it go.
Turn everything off, and take the bottle to bed with you.
To all plump and juicy roast-worthy fowl: this time, take off the safety when trying to fire that thing.
Good luck.
Happy holiday, y'all.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, December 23, 2013
SADLY, NO FRESH DONUTS THIS WEDNESDAY!
This blogger finds it very hard to get into the Christmas spirit. As well as, remarkably, the anti-Christmas spirit. For one thing, that narrative about the miraculous birth of a new deity, plus three wise guys, and a bunch of hysterical shepherds, does not resonate.
Neither does the folkloristic legend that there's a grossly overweight person flying around on a magic vehicle while chucking I-phones down chimneys. Who employs a whole bunch of leprechauns and super-mutant reindeer.
Time for a new story.
Once upon a time there was an old lady who decided to give every one of her relatives absolutely nothing in her will. Because all of her teeth had fallen out, her fridge was filled with tofu. As well as the freezer, and the ice chest in the den. Then in December, a tanker truck crashed into her suburban ranch-house and exploded. The result was that the neighborhood was covered in white muck from all the tofu, and she had to move in with her grandkids. They bought her a blender, so she never ate tofu again. This changed her life. To show her appreciation, she paid off their college loans, and everyone lived happily ever after.
And that is why we kind of like 'white Christmasses', and we tend to be somewhat half-heartedly generous towards complete strangers around this time of year.
Tofu gently falling from the sky at night, and a lovely fire in the gated community, destroying eye-sore architecture. It's festive, and it scares away the vengeful leprechauns and mutant reindeer.
Who might be armed with assault rifles.
And that's a very good thing.
Aren't you thankful?
For a real taste of Christmas, put some sliced turkey and cooked sweet potato in a blender, whir till smooth. Dust with nutmeg, and sell it for $4.50 as "The Caffeine-free Holiday Frappucino".
Bah, whatever.
Only 60 hours until the big post-holiday sales begin.
Just think of all the savings!
Inspiring.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Neither does the folkloristic legend that there's a grossly overweight person flying around on a magic vehicle while chucking I-phones down chimneys. Who employs a whole bunch of leprechauns and super-mutant reindeer.
Time for a new story.
Once upon a time there was an old lady who decided to give every one of her relatives absolutely nothing in her will. Because all of her teeth had fallen out, her fridge was filled with tofu. As well as the freezer, and the ice chest in the den. Then in December, a tanker truck crashed into her suburban ranch-house and exploded. The result was that the neighborhood was covered in white muck from all the tofu, and she had to move in with her grandkids. They bought her a blender, so she never ate tofu again. This changed her life. To show her appreciation, she paid off their college loans, and everyone lived happily ever after.
And that is why we kind of like 'white Christmasses', and we tend to be somewhat half-heartedly generous towards complete strangers around this time of year.
Tofu gently falling from the sky at night, and a lovely fire in the gated community, destroying eye-sore architecture. It's festive, and it scares away the vengeful leprechauns and mutant reindeer.
Who might be armed with assault rifles.
And that's a very good thing.
Aren't you thankful?
For a real taste of Christmas, put some sliced turkey and cooked sweet potato in a blender, whir till smooth. Dust with nutmeg, and sell it for $4.50 as "The Caffeine-free Holiday Frappucino".
Bah, whatever.
Only 60 hours until the big post-holiday sales begin.
Just think of all the savings!
Inspiring.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
THE WARM BUS RIDE
The bus stopped at Kearney and old people got on. One gentleman was so arthritic that he really should have used the front, where there is lift capability -- the bus will lower itself, and a little hydraulic platform would be able to make the ascent so much less problematic -- but he got on at the rear entrance, painfully attempting to hoist himself up the stairs. He refused help from passengers, but his wife pushed him up and in. It was a well-practiced manoeuvre; she had obviously done it many times before.
Before creaking over to a seat which a young person vacated for him, he swiped his transit card against the beeper. Whatever else, one must observe proper procedures. Two blocks later the couple got off.
I suspect that they meant to catch the Stockton bus.
Well, they're alive and kicking. And filled with determination neither grim nor excessively upbeat. Very matter of fact about the logistical problems that accompany old age.
Still.
In those two blocks, the bus went from jam-packed to sardine can.
There had been many elderly folks at Kearney Street.
Very few younger people got the memo.
Alleviating the tension that masses crammed together may feel, one woman was talking on her cell-phone. Normally I disapprove of cell-phone use on the bus, as it seems such a deliberate act of selfish personal imperialism.
"This is my space, screw you and both of your ears and even your very presence, I am an important and creative individual, and I will now assert my splendidiferous persontude by yacking loudly about nothing at all.
For the next ten blocks!"
"You gotta return to the warm embrace of Lesbian motherhood!"
Okay. Lady, you've got my complete attention. I love listening in on transit conversations, and I have NO intention of disturbing you while you talk about Lesbian maternal temperature.
This blogger, while not a Lesbian himself, has nothing but kind words for Lesbian embraces.
Which I do not want to actually see, please understand, unless they are fully clothed. Much like any other embracing. Embraces are a charming spectacle if the proprieties are maintained.
And I'm not a mother either. So that's TWO points of difference.
But believe me, I am all about warmth.
Especially in this weather.
Let us ALL embrace.
Mmm, toasty.
Turns out a friend is dallying temporarily with one of THOSE people. You know, a man. Male. Of masculine persuasion. It may be Christmas-related. Have to present a non-disturbing face to the folks during the holiday.
A pretense at standard heterosexual complacency is far more festive than casting dykeness into the family soup.
But just wait till afterwards. When it's all over.
You WILL return to the warm embrace.
Of the Lesbian earth-mother.
You can't help it.
Baby.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Before creaking over to a seat which a young person vacated for him, he swiped his transit card against the beeper. Whatever else, one must observe proper procedures. Two blocks later the couple got off.
I suspect that they meant to catch the Stockton bus.
Well, they're alive and kicking. And filled with determination neither grim nor excessively upbeat. Very matter of fact about the logistical problems that accompany old age.
Still.
In those two blocks, the bus went from jam-packed to sardine can.
There had been many elderly folks at Kearney Street.
Very few younger people got the memo.
Alleviating the tension that masses crammed together may feel, one woman was talking on her cell-phone. Normally I disapprove of cell-phone use on the bus, as it seems such a deliberate act of selfish personal imperialism.
"This is my space, screw you and both of your ears and even your very presence, I am an important and creative individual, and I will now assert my splendidiferous persontude by yacking loudly about nothing at all.
For the next ten blocks!"
"You gotta return to the warm embrace of Lesbian motherhood!"
Okay. Lady, you've got my complete attention. I love listening in on transit conversations, and I have NO intention of disturbing you while you talk about Lesbian maternal temperature.
This blogger, while not a Lesbian himself, has nothing but kind words for Lesbian embraces.
Which I do not want to actually see, please understand, unless they are fully clothed. Much like any other embracing. Embraces are a charming spectacle if the proprieties are maintained.
And I'm not a mother either. So that's TWO points of difference.
But believe me, I am all about warmth.
Especially in this weather.
Let us ALL embrace.
Mmm, toasty.
Turns out a friend is dallying temporarily with one of THOSE people. You know, a man. Male. Of masculine persuasion. It may be Christmas-related. Have to present a non-disturbing face to the folks during the holiday.
A pretense at standard heterosexual complacency is far more festive than casting dykeness into the family soup.
But just wait till afterwards. When it's all over.
You WILL return to the warm embrace.
Of the Lesbian earth-mother.
You can't help it.
Baby.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, November 30, 2013
ARE YOUR RELATIVES HAVING A BLACK ORGY?
Vast hordes of murderous shoppers descended growling on the mall, overwhelming the severely outnumbered security staff. Whom they ripped into tiny shreds with the spike-heels on their Manolo Blahniks. Like a swarm of fire ants they overran the place, leaving nothing but mayhem and despair in their wake.
Thus began the great Black Friday Zombie Orgy.
At least, that is how I fondly imagine the scene in Union Square and the various shopping centra of the Bay Area, at approximately half an hour after turkey this past Thursday evening. In this scenario, all of those places now resemble charnel houses, with twitching corpses ambulating glassy-eyed among the fabulous bargains, and scraps of flesh adhering to door jams, lintels, clothing racks, and battered shelving.
This blogger does not participate in shopping frenzies.
I've got better things to do than slash ferociously with my credit cards, disemboweling other women in my furious assault on the whimpering sales clerks.
I am a man, not a woman. I do not disembowel.
Men are gentle souls. Women aren't.
Not after Thanksgiving.
Right about now, at around nine o'clock on a Saturday evening, you are wondering where in hell your wife and daughters are. You also have other female relatives, like maiden aunties, and various in-laws, but you've given up on them; they're galumphing across the retail savanna in pursuit of terrified shmatte, blingities, and trinkets. But despite their cannibalistic tendencies, you still care bout your wife and daughters.
You are vested in them, as it were.
And their horrid habits.
If you are reading this, you are in the house alone. It is dark and oh so quiet, the television is off, and you're wondering if you should reheat some stuffing, or break off a piece of frozen three cheese pizza.
Which tastes perfectly fine dipped in Ranch Dressing.
Later, long after you have retired for the night, the women will return. Giddy from the hunt, as well as exhilarated from feeding on corpses, they will stumble in, waking the neighbors and making the dogs howl.
Blood-spattered, as if witnesses to a mid-winter sacrifice.
Torn clothing, glowing eyes, and red red talons.
They have won the war, huzzah.
More tomorrow.
Three more weeks!
AFTER WORD
In the past three decades I've worked both the retail and accounting side of the Holiday Season. Personally, I think most Americans are bonkers. Christmas carols are musical garbage, no one needs all that glittery crap, there's too much mediocre chocolate, and mob-shopping is an absolute drag.
Decide what you will give them all, whiz in, grab it and pay, get out.
Five minutes per gift. Even if you have a hundred greedy kinfolk,
that really should not take more than eight hours.
Less than two if you're efficient.
To really simplify things, just buy everyone a bottle of Tequila.
Even, most particularly, the teenagers and old people.
The young and decrepit have simple tastes.
Stocking up for the Holidays means lots of frozen convenience food, and several bags of high-sodium snacks. Perhaps a generator, and a hundred boxes of cartridges. Plus Ranch Dressing.
The living dead are out there.
Hello Kitty also figures into this, but I don't know how.
Maybe she is 'The Spirit of Christmas Feral'.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thus began the great Black Friday Zombie Orgy.
At least, that is how I fondly imagine the scene in Union Square and the various shopping centra of the Bay Area, at approximately half an hour after turkey this past Thursday evening. In this scenario, all of those places now resemble charnel houses, with twitching corpses ambulating glassy-eyed among the fabulous bargains, and scraps of flesh adhering to door jams, lintels, clothing racks, and battered shelving.
This blogger does not participate in shopping frenzies.
I've got better things to do than slash ferociously with my credit cards, disemboweling other women in my furious assault on the whimpering sales clerks.
I am a man, not a woman. I do not disembowel.
Men are gentle souls. Women aren't.
Not after Thanksgiving.
Right about now, at around nine o'clock on a Saturday evening, you are wondering where in hell your wife and daughters are. You also have other female relatives, like maiden aunties, and various in-laws, but you've given up on them; they're galumphing across the retail savanna in pursuit of terrified shmatte, blingities, and trinkets. But despite their cannibalistic tendencies, you still care bout your wife and daughters.
You are vested in them, as it were.
And their horrid habits.
If you are reading this, you are in the house alone. It is dark and oh so quiet, the television is off, and you're wondering if you should reheat some stuffing, or break off a piece of frozen three cheese pizza.
Which tastes perfectly fine dipped in Ranch Dressing.
Later, long after you have retired for the night, the women will return. Giddy from the hunt, as well as exhilarated from feeding on corpses, they will stumble in, waking the neighbors and making the dogs howl.
Blood-spattered, as if witnesses to a mid-winter sacrifice.
Torn clothing, glowing eyes, and red red talons.
They have won the war, huzzah.
More tomorrow.
Three more weeks!
AFTER WORD
In the past three decades I've worked both the retail and accounting side of the Holiday Season. Personally, I think most Americans are bonkers. Christmas carols are musical garbage, no one needs all that glittery crap, there's too much mediocre chocolate, and mob-shopping is an absolute drag.
Decide what you will give them all, whiz in, grab it and pay, get out.
Five minutes per gift. Even if you have a hundred greedy kinfolk,
that really should not take more than eight hours.
Less than two if you're efficient.
To really simplify things, just buy everyone a bottle of Tequila.
Even, most particularly, the teenagers and old people.
The young and decrepit have simple tastes.
Stocking up for the Holidays means lots of frozen convenience food, and several bags of high-sodium snacks. Perhaps a generator, and a hundred boxes of cartridges. Plus Ranch Dressing.
The living dead are out there.
Hello Kitty also figures into this, but I don't know how.
Maybe she is 'The Spirit of Christmas Feral'.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
YOUR OVERDUE RECOVERY
Now that Christmas is over, you've woken up to the fact that, musically at least, the entire last month and a half has been indescribably ghastly.
Fact is, if any hamsters (or gerbils) sang anywhere near you right now, you'd probably kill them.
Stuff their little cadavers into the garbage disposal pronto.
Not even reserve them for the compost heap.
Daemonic hamsters (and gerbils) are just one of those things that makes the commercialization of the holiday season such an abomination.
But it's over now, you can return to sanity.
And, coincidentally, I have the music that makes it possible.
A BETTER CELEBRATION!
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C1UvrUnAxKc.]
Didn't that sound so much nicer?
And more real, too.
Here it is, almost exactly two years later, and I still do not know why she is carrying a stuffed pig. Or is that a fat bunny rabbit?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Fact is, if any hamsters (or gerbils) sang anywhere near you right now, you'd probably kill them.
Stuff their little cadavers into the garbage disposal pronto.
Not even reserve them for the compost heap.
Daemonic hamsters (and gerbils) are just one of those things that makes the commercialization of the holiday season such an abomination.
But it's over now, you can return to sanity.
And, coincidentally, I have the music that makes it possible.
A BETTER CELEBRATION!
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C1UvrUnAxKc.]
Didn't that sound so much nicer?
And more real, too.
Here it is, almost exactly two years later, and I still do not know why she is carrying a stuffed pig. Or is that a fat bunny rabbit?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
WHAT YOU CAN DO WITH FRUIT CAKES
There are two fruitcakes in my kitchen right now.
I have no idea how they got there. This must be the mysterious confectionery multiplication that I've heard about. They increase exponentially.
One single fruitcake leaves Texas every year. Just one.
And before you know it, they are everywhere.
Cell-division, like a primitive life-form.
By the time the solstice comes around, civilization is awash with fruitcakes, then just as suddenly they disappear.
It's a mystery.
I am alone in the house. With TWO fruitcakes.
And, remarkably, I think I now must wander around the neighborhood smoking my pipe.
If I should see a nice young woman who looks lonesome, I will likely ask her in, to share some fruitcake.
[Not, strictly speaking, the most practical of ideas at present, as it is raining buckets outside; but a drenched orphan might appreciate it.]
Hello, Young Lady! Can I offer you some fruitcake?
I have EXCELLENT fruitcake at home!
Two of them. Please.
The world is NOT ready for anyone tempting innocent young persons with a promise of divine fruitcake. That is the kind of queer shiznit you read about in newspapers.
"ELDERLY DELINQUENT THREATENS FRUITCAKE!"
This, you will agree, would be the perfect holiday headline in the San Francisco Chronicle. A middle-aged bachelor using fruitcakes as a decadent and possibly depraved lure for the unwary. The city is a dangerous place, when people like me lurk in residential neighborhoods with fruitcakes.
Miss, I'm going to feed you fruitcake.
Till you scream.
I am evil.
Nevertheless, they are truly wonderful fruitcakes. And there is far more than I can possibly eat by myself; I should like some help. But being both a practical man as well as just a wee bit gluttonous, I do NOT want the assistance of someone with a humongous appetite.
Forgive me, but I wish to consume the greater portion.
So naturally a youthful female of modest physical dimension comes to mind as the logical partner in fruitcake.
Her dietary self-control will limit her intake.
We'll have equal portions, with cocoa.
Later I will walk her home.
Then at around two in the morning, I shall have some more.
Toasted, with melted butter, and a little whisky.
Percentage-wise, I get most of it.
Unless she twists my arm.
Or offers me a carrot.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I have no idea how they got there. This must be the mysterious confectionery multiplication that I've heard about. They increase exponentially.
One single fruitcake leaves Texas every year. Just one.
And before you know it, they are everywhere.
Cell-division, like a primitive life-form.
By the time the solstice comes around, civilization is awash with fruitcakes, then just as suddenly they disappear.
It's a mystery.
I am alone in the house. With TWO fruitcakes.
And, remarkably, I think I now must wander around the neighborhood smoking my pipe.
If I should see a nice young woman who looks lonesome, I will likely ask her in, to share some fruitcake.
[Not, strictly speaking, the most practical of ideas at present, as it is raining buckets outside; but a drenched orphan might appreciate it.]
Hello, Young Lady! Can I offer you some fruitcake?
I have EXCELLENT fruitcake at home!
Two of them. Please.
The world is NOT ready for anyone tempting innocent young persons with a promise of divine fruitcake. That is the kind of queer shiznit you read about in newspapers.
"ELDERLY DELINQUENT THREATENS FRUITCAKE!"
This, you will agree, would be the perfect holiday headline in the San Francisco Chronicle. A middle-aged bachelor using fruitcakes as a decadent and possibly depraved lure for the unwary. The city is a dangerous place, when people like me lurk in residential neighborhoods with fruitcakes.
Miss, I'm going to feed you fruitcake.
Till you scream.
I am evil.
Nevertheless, they are truly wonderful fruitcakes. And there is far more than I can possibly eat by myself; I should like some help. But being both a practical man as well as just a wee bit gluttonous, I do NOT want the assistance of someone with a humongous appetite.
Forgive me, but I wish to consume the greater portion.
So naturally a youthful female of modest physical dimension comes to mind as the logical partner in fruitcake.
Her dietary self-control will limit her intake.
We'll have equal portions, with cocoa.
Later I will walk her home.
Then at around two in the morning, I shall have some more.
Toasted, with melted butter, and a little whisky.
Percentage-wise, I get most of it.
Unless she twists my arm.
Or offers me a carrot.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, December 25, 2011
JUST DUCKY!
Lunch on Sunday usually isn’t a problem. I get up late, take a long bath, and head into Chinatown for a bite before percolating down to the office. Or, if I've gotten to the office relatively early and haven't felt puckish yet, I'll wander back up to C'town for snackipoos by mid-afternoon.
I've come to enjoy the regular solitude and peacefulness of the office on a weekend, though I do wish at times that I had other activities planned.
But Christmas is an unpleasant imposition, and an interruption of my routine - one cannot toddle off to a Chinese eatery for a bit of casual solitary snarfing on Xmas.
People dining by themselves in a Chinese Restaurant on Christmas advertise that their family ties are defective.
Which, in Chinese terms, makes them a very doubtful quantity.
Normal Caucasians surely have someone to eat with.
Especially during the holidays.
Well, not exactly. I'm not in a relationship anymore, and I have no bloodkin in Northern California.
So while I consider myself quite normal (please do NOT interject a snarky comment at this point!), my holidays won't follow the standard pattern.
Not a problem.
Except when it comes to food.
No, I do not have an atavistic desire to eat turkey. It's a rather miserable bird that probably makes a better pet than dinner, despite its absolute stupidity.
And most of the traditional trimmings are all in all rather nasty.
Truth be told, the idea of sitting around a groaning board with a large number of distant relatives gives me the screaming willies.
I'm just not that conversationally gifted.
Eeeek!
AFLACKKKKKKK!
A nice plump roast duck is delicious. Hacked into chopstickable chunks, served with rice and crisp vegetables.
Perhaps with some spicy-fried prawns, or even a bit of steamed fatty pork with ginger.
It's enough for two to four or five people.
Very festive!
But at present there is no one to chopstick-dance with.
And I seldom cook much nowadays.
On a day like today it would be particularly pointless.
At some point later I shall have a slice of fruit cake and a bit of whisky.
Helped by a mystery novel and a pipeful of good tobacco, the time will pass quickly, and Christmas will soon be over.
Okay, perhaps TWO slices of fruit cake.
With a second whisky, or another smoke.
On Monday I shall wield chopsticks again!
I wonder, where will I go for some nice duck?
Now, I think I'll head over to the operations department and steal some of their chocolate!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I've come to enjoy the regular solitude and peacefulness of the office on a weekend, though I do wish at times that I had other activities planned.
But Christmas is an unpleasant imposition, and an interruption of my routine - one cannot toddle off to a Chinese eatery for a bit of casual solitary snarfing on Xmas.
People dining by themselves in a Chinese Restaurant on Christmas advertise that their family ties are defective.
Which, in Chinese terms, makes them a very doubtful quantity.
Normal Caucasians surely have someone to eat with.
Especially during the holidays.
Well, not exactly. I'm not in a relationship anymore, and I have no bloodkin in Northern California.
So while I consider myself quite normal (please do NOT interject a snarky comment at this point!), my holidays won't follow the standard pattern.
Not a problem.
Except when it comes to food.
No, I do not have an atavistic desire to eat turkey. It's a rather miserable bird that probably makes a better pet than dinner, despite its absolute stupidity.
And most of the traditional trimmings are all in all rather nasty.
Truth be told, the idea of sitting around a groaning board with a large number of distant relatives gives me the screaming willies.
I'm just not that conversationally gifted.
Eeeek!
AFLACKKKKKKK!
A nice plump roast duck is delicious. Hacked into chopstickable chunks, served with rice and crisp vegetables.
Perhaps with some spicy-fried prawns, or even a bit of steamed fatty pork with ginger.
It's enough for two to four or five people.
Very festive!
But at present there is no one to chopstick-dance with.
And I seldom cook much nowadays.
On a day like today it would be particularly pointless.
At some point later I shall have a slice of fruit cake and a bit of whisky.
Helped by a mystery novel and a pipeful of good tobacco, the time will pass quickly, and Christmas will soon be over.
Okay, perhaps TWO slices of fruit cake.
With a second whisky, or another smoke.
On Monday I shall wield chopsticks again!
I wonder, where will I go for some nice duck?
Now, I think I'll head over to the operations department and steal some of their chocolate!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, December 23, 2011
THE QUIET AFTER CHRISTMAS
The week after Christmas is always enjoyable and quiet at work. Last year, after a few slow hours, I would head into Chinatown for lunch. Which is something I will do again this year.
Off on the twentysixth (probably at the office nevertheless), working half-days Tuesday through Friday.
Leave at two P.M. C'town by 2:20. Fed by 3.
Thinking in terms of wonton noodle soup at least once.
It's perfect coldweather food.
Of course, what I would far rather be doing is curling up on a couch with a hot beverage and another person, underneath a nice warm comforter.
Got the comforter.
Zero on person.
And no couch.
Perhaps I should just bring my comforter or a blanket down to the office and lie in front of the reception area teevee watching cartoons all afternoon.
With a nice hot beverage.
It will be very quiet.
Nobody's working more than two half-days between Xmas and New Year.
If it weren't for building security, the smoke detectors, and the sprinkler system, I could probably also get away with smoking my pipe.
Smoking outdoors in frigid weather is not entirely enjoyable.
Really, I don't know how Santa does it - in illustrations he's always pictured with a pipe. Perhaps he has on two sets of long underwear. Lots of insulation.
Happy nudity does not appear to be part of Santa's world, and the concept of a hot tub or steam room at the North Pole, with a mob of those bandy-legged elves unwinding, is not a pretty mental sight.
Their locker room probably smells nasty.
I bet all of them have scratchy red long johns.
Probably itchy rashes on their bottoms because of it.
No nice silken skin, warm and velvety, but dry and chapped.
Whoever came up with the idea of a whole bunch of unshaven height-impaired middle-aged gentlemen all bunking together with a large elderly (and eccentric!) fat dude in the frozen wastelands had a hyper-active imagination and a very, VERY sick mind.
There's something frightfully English about the whole thing.
Unpleasantly reminiscent of the public schools.
Foodwise, it's probably horrible too.
Reindeer sausages every day.
No vegetables, or seafood.
British digestive issues.
And boiled penguins.
Certainly puts my lack of a couch and another person in perspective. At least I'm not forced to associate with a bunch of short ugly men all the time.
And I get to eat wonton noodle soup in Chinatown.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Off on the twentysixth (probably at the office nevertheless), working half-days Tuesday through Friday.
Leave at two P.M. C'town by 2:20. Fed by 3.
Thinking in terms of wonton noodle soup at least once.
It's perfect coldweather food.
Of course, what I would far rather be doing is curling up on a couch with a hot beverage and another person, underneath a nice warm comforter.
Got the comforter.
Zero on person.
And no couch.
Perhaps I should just bring my comforter or a blanket down to the office and lie in front of the reception area teevee watching cartoons all afternoon.
With a nice hot beverage.
It will be very quiet.
Nobody's working more than two half-days between Xmas and New Year.
If it weren't for building security, the smoke detectors, and the sprinkler system, I could probably also get away with smoking my pipe.
Smoking outdoors in frigid weather is not entirely enjoyable.
Really, I don't know how Santa does it - in illustrations he's always pictured with a pipe. Perhaps he has on two sets of long underwear. Lots of insulation.
Happy nudity does not appear to be part of Santa's world, and the concept of a hot tub or steam room at the North Pole, with a mob of those bandy-legged elves unwinding, is not a pretty mental sight.
Their locker room probably smells nasty.
I bet all of them have scratchy red long johns.
Probably itchy rashes on their bottoms because of it.
No nice silken skin, warm and velvety, but dry and chapped.
Whoever came up with the idea of a whole bunch of unshaven height-impaired middle-aged gentlemen all bunking together with a large elderly (and eccentric!) fat dude in the frozen wastelands had a hyper-active imagination and a very, VERY sick mind.
There's something frightfully English about the whole thing.
Unpleasantly reminiscent of the public schools.
Foodwise, it's probably horrible too.
Reindeer sausages every day.
No vegetables, or seafood.
British digestive issues.
And boiled penguins.
Certainly puts my lack of a couch and another person in perspective. At least I'm not forced to associate with a bunch of short ugly men all the time.
And I get to eat wonton noodle soup in Chinatown.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, December 22, 2011
SEASONALLY INDUCED TOURETTES
Nougat. Praline. Fondant. Fudge.
Walnuts, sugar, brickle, candy canes.
If anyone says those words, run and hide.
They’ve been possessed by an evil spirit.
The Christmas season did not used to be such a tense and fraught time of year. And it’s unfair blaming the retailers – they simply discovered that their customers would happily buy crap in huge quantities during the last two weeks before the holiday; unwellchosen gifts and expensive fripp being exchanged, then angrily returned as unsuitable.
Why? Because auntie Pooh-Pooh in Long Beach gets all despondent if she doesn’t receive trinkets and costume jewelry from all of her little nephews and nieces. She’s given up on their parents, as they simply send another subscription to a magazine she never reads, and a fruitbasket with a champagne bottle sticking out of the centre.
If she had anyone to dance with on New Year’s Eve she’d drink it, but after ten o’clock uncle Walter simply dozes in the bingo room at the old folks home that they live in. The nurse will come by and quietly remove the stogey from his clenched arthritic grasp, as the other retirees one by one fall asleep and drool. The nurse puts the teevee on low volume so that the ball descending at midnight won’t wake the somnolent ones.
Did I mention that appalling woman who always brings your mom oranges? Yep, gotta get her something too. Because even though you can’t stand oranges by now (force of association), you have to show your appreciation. She’ll then pinch your cheek and say “my, how you’ve grown! Gonna get married soon!”
No, you have no plans to get hitched at any time in the near-future. There’s more to life than domestic disharmony. Wild illicit passion with a mysterious stranger, maybe. The things is, you have options.
But you aren’t planning to tell her that. She’d think you queer if you did.
Instead you buy her an extra tight Christmas sweater.
So she can flaunt her boobies.
In all modesty.
Giving gifts feels good, but being forced to do so is an imposition.
Most men simply want a sixpack of beer, women crave jewelry, and kids beg for electronic devices.
Why doesn’t anybody just settle for socks?
[This blogger is easy to shop for. A candy bar wrapped in a pair of panties.
It's what I've always wanted. Now, what would YOU like?]
Christmas is the most irritating time of year, and holiday shopping totally blows!
Fruitcake. Moist. Pink Champagne. Bûche de Noël .
Gingerbread santas and reindeer cookies.
Peanut butter caramel fudge bars.
Triple mint marble suckers.
SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU!
AAAAAAAAURGH!
FX!KXMAS!
You have NO intention of reading or watching Charles Dickens' saccharine fable again. It stank the first time, it has become more torturous with each telling. And Frosty the Snowman should melt.
Instead, you’ll find somewhere private to read that history atlas you have, and dream fondly of Huns despoiling Eastern Europe, or the Ashanti Empire before the Europeans ruined everything in Africa. The division of Charlemagne’s realm, and the sweep of plagues across the known world.
A nice quiet place, where Christmas is faint.
I don’t know about you, but I intend to be home by late afternoon everyday between Christmas Eve and new year.
No returns, no after Christmas sales, and no clearance bargain frenzies.
At peace, having a good read, with a pipefull or two.
Quiet, restful, and positively no stress.
Please drop by with your books.
Hide out, and unwind.
Have a cup of tea.
It's sanctuary.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Walnuts, sugar, brickle, candy canes.
If anyone says those words, run and hide.
They’ve been possessed by an evil spirit.
The Christmas season did not used to be such a tense and fraught time of year. And it’s unfair blaming the retailers – they simply discovered that their customers would happily buy crap in huge quantities during the last two weeks before the holiday; unwellchosen gifts and expensive fripp being exchanged, then angrily returned as unsuitable.
Why? Because auntie Pooh-Pooh in Long Beach gets all despondent if she doesn’t receive trinkets and costume jewelry from all of her little nephews and nieces. She’s given up on their parents, as they simply send another subscription to a magazine she never reads, and a fruitbasket with a champagne bottle sticking out of the centre.
If she had anyone to dance with on New Year’s Eve she’d drink it, but after ten o’clock uncle Walter simply dozes in the bingo room at the old folks home that they live in. The nurse will come by and quietly remove the stogey from his clenched arthritic grasp, as the other retirees one by one fall asleep and drool. The nurse puts the teevee on low volume so that the ball descending at midnight won’t wake the somnolent ones.
Did I mention that appalling woman who always brings your mom oranges? Yep, gotta get her something too. Because even though you can’t stand oranges by now (force of association), you have to show your appreciation. She’ll then pinch your cheek and say “my, how you’ve grown! Gonna get married soon!”
No, you have no plans to get hitched at any time in the near-future. There’s more to life than domestic disharmony. Wild illicit passion with a mysterious stranger, maybe. The things is, you have options.
But you aren’t planning to tell her that. She’d think you queer if you did.
Instead you buy her an extra tight Christmas sweater.
So she can flaunt her boobies.
In all modesty.
Giving gifts feels good, but being forced to do so is an imposition.
Most men simply want a sixpack of beer, women crave jewelry, and kids beg for electronic devices.
Why doesn’t anybody just settle for socks?
[This blogger is easy to shop for. A candy bar wrapped in a pair of panties.
It's what I've always wanted. Now, what would YOU like?]
Christmas is the most irritating time of year, and holiday shopping totally blows!
Fruitcake. Moist. Pink Champagne. Bûche de Noël .
Gingerbread santas and reindeer cookies.
Peanut butter caramel fudge bars.
Triple mint marble suckers.
SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU!
AAAAAAAAURGH!
FX!KXMAS!
You have NO intention of reading or watching Charles Dickens' saccharine fable again. It stank the first time, it has become more torturous with each telling. And Frosty the Snowman should melt.
Instead, you’ll find somewhere private to read that history atlas you have, and dream fondly of Huns despoiling Eastern Europe, or the Ashanti Empire before the Europeans ruined everything in Africa. The division of Charlemagne’s realm, and the sweep of plagues across the known world.
A nice quiet place, where Christmas is faint.
I don’t know about you, but I intend to be home by late afternoon everyday between Christmas Eve and new year.
No returns, no after Christmas sales, and no clearance bargain frenzies.
At peace, having a good read, with a pipefull or two.
Quiet, restful, and positively no stress.
Please drop by with your books.
Hide out, and unwind.
Have a cup of tea.
It's sanctuary.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
NICE PAJAMAS FOR SMALL WOMEN
I have to wonder: do the folks at Macy's and other stores just assume that all women are enormous?
Is there a law out there that insists that if a woman does not have a monstrous booty she must sleep nude?
While personally I have no problem with covering up the hairy mastodon women and hiding them from friends and family, I am amazed and not a little appalled that the only pajamas that Macy's sells are 'Medium', 'Large', 'Extra Large', and 'Killer Whale'.
What's even worse is that they've confused 'sleepwear' with 'slutwear'.
Yes, half of the females in the Bay Area seem to prefer that latter category of clothing at all times (and we should be grateful that they do not parade around in their sleepwear), but all I want is some nice happy jammies.
You know, comfy flannel with little frogs or sheep patterns.
It's not for me. It's for my roommate. She needs something nice.
I am also disturbed by the fact that pajamas are in the lingerie department.
Mind you, I like lingerie. Really I do.
That is, I used to.
That was before the lingerie department started catering to the same people who have confused sleepwear with slutwear. Very large sluts. Enormous.
Since when did the women in this city develop hooters the size of a regulation basketball? And if they are that large, little scraps of frilly material ain't gonna hold 'em.
Ripping lace is such a sad sound.
WHERE DID ALL THE NICE GARMENTS GO?
Yes, I know that women ELSEWHERE in this country are elephantine, built like bovine sasquatch. Probably because of the huge mounds of deepfried cow-behind and barbecue sauce covered lard-o-melts that they consume, as well as the growth hormones in the groundwater of cattle country.
But this is San Francisco. Women are more health conscious here. And there are ladies living in the city whose foodculture does not include using frozen pizza as a taco shell, deep frying it, and loading that monster up with ground fatty beef, processed cheese, sour cream, bacon, and guacamole.
Enough for the whole family in SF is a mere snack elsewhere.
My roommate is a small person. Thin, with fine bones. No, I haven't seen her in lingerie in years.
We're no longer a couple, and we no longer expose ourselves to each other.
And while I fondly remember the visual excitement of the past, such things are not part of the present program.
She simply needs something warm and comfy to watch teevee in. Something with dancing kangaroos or partying bunny rabbits, for instance.
Not something built for big lard buts and sixteen pound bowling balls.
I'm still searching. It's important. Must find something.
I also need to find someone who will wear lingerie at me.
But that's an entirely different search.
Though no less important.
Fine silk things.
Petite.
Little frogs. Drowsy sheep. Dancing kangaroos. Drunken rabbits.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Is there a law out there that insists that if a woman does not have a monstrous booty she must sleep nude?
While personally I have no problem with covering up the hairy mastodon women and hiding them from friends and family, I am amazed and not a little appalled that the only pajamas that Macy's sells are 'Medium', 'Large', 'Extra Large', and 'Killer Whale'.
What's even worse is that they've confused 'sleepwear' with 'slutwear'.
Yes, half of the females in the Bay Area seem to prefer that latter category of clothing at all times (and we should be grateful that they do not parade around in their sleepwear), but all I want is some nice happy jammies.
You know, comfy flannel with little frogs or sheep patterns.
It's not for me. It's for my roommate. She needs something nice.
I am also disturbed by the fact that pajamas are in the lingerie department.
Mind you, I like lingerie. Really I do.
That is, I used to.
That was before the lingerie department started catering to the same people who have confused sleepwear with slutwear. Very large sluts. Enormous.
Since when did the women in this city develop hooters the size of a regulation basketball? And if they are that large, little scraps of frilly material ain't gonna hold 'em.
Ripping lace is such a sad sound.
WHERE DID ALL THE NICE GARMENTS GO?
Yes, I know that women ELSEWHERE in this country are elephantine, built like bovine sasquatch. Probably because of the huge mounds of deepfried cow-behind and barbecue sauce covered lard-o-melts that they consume, as well as the growth hormones in the groundwater of cattle country.
But this is San Francisco. Women are more health conscious here. And there are ladies living in the city whose foodculture does not include using frozen pizza as a taco shell, deep frying it, and loading that monster up with ground fatty beef, processed cheese, sour cream, bacon, and guacamole.
Enough for the whole family in SF is a mere snack elsewhere.
My roommate is a small person. Thin, with fine bones. No, I haven't seen her in lingerie in years.
We're no longer a couple, and we no longer expose ourselves to each other.
And while I fondly remember the visual excitement of the past, such things are not part of the present program.
She simply needs something warm and comfy to watch teevee in. Something with dancing kangaroos or partying bunny rabbits, for instance.
Not something built for big lard buts and sixteen pound bowling balls.
I'm still searching. It's important. Must find something.
I also need to find someone who will wear lingerie at me.
But that's an entirely different search.
Though no less important.
Fine silk things.
Petite.
Little frogs. Drowsy sheep. Dancing kangaroos. Drunken rabbits.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, December 18, 2011
THOROUGHLY FED UP WITH THE HOLIDAYS
You’ve had enough of the season. Screw it. It's not even Christmas yet, and the pressure is more than you can bear. More, actually, than you wish to take.
You're not even sure what it's all about anyway.
The story is that on December 25th. two thousand years ago some fat guy wearing red saw a star in the sky and squoze his lard-ass down a chimney somewhere in Germany.
Since then there has been war in the Middle-East, and little white kids get presents.
It’s all rather confusing and silly.
Your cousins and siblings have bought into the whole thing.
And because they have, you’ve felt pressure to buy them stuff too.
Knowing that in the first two days after Christmas ALL of you will be down at Macys trying to return stuff that isn’t your size, would look horrible on you, and makes your skin itch.
All you want is the roast duck and that lovely charsiu.
Avoid the overdone turkey, ignore the stuffing.
Pass the rice, and all of you, shut up!
Everywhere you go, you hear horrible, HORRIBLE! music.
What you need, my dear, is a quiet afternoon at my place.
Just kick off your shoes, get under the blankets – make sure that you’re fully covered for maximum toasty – and let me bring you a nice hot cup of warm milk (with honey). Here’s a volume of Calvin and Hobbes to read.
There won’t be any horrid Christmas music. Nor any nasty smells of pine-sprayed wreaths, scented candles with almond, cinnamon, and cloves, fake bakery odours, overly sweet candy aromas. Just a faint whisp of pipe tobacco from the other room, where I will be reading my own book.
Enjoy the silence, and feel free to doze.
I’ll wake you up later and we’ll go have a snack.
You’ll get home at a reasonable hour, and you can tell everyone that you were out shopping.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
You're not even sure what it's all about anyway.
The story is that on December 25th. two thousand years ago some fat guy wearing red saw a star in the sky and squoze his lard-ass down a chimney somewhere in Germany.
Since then there has been war in the Middle-East, and little white kids get presents.
It’s all rather confusing and silly.
Your cousins and siblings have bought into the whole thing.
And because they have, you’ve felt pressure to buy them stuff too.
Knowing that in the first two days after Christmas ALL of you will be down at Macys trying to return stuff that isn’t your size, would look horrible on you, and makes your skin itch.
All you want is the roast duck and that lovely charsiu.
Avoid the overdone turkey, ignore the stuffing.
Pass the rice, and all of you, shut up!
Everywhere you go, you hear horrible, HORRIBLE! music.
What you need, my dear, is a quiet afternoon at my place.
Just kick off your shoes, get under the blankets – make sure that you’re fully covered for maximum toasty – and let me bring you a nice hot cup of warm milk (with honey). Here’s a volume of Calvin and Hobbes to read.
There won’t be any horrid Christmas music. Nor any nasty smells of pine-sprayed wreaths, scented candles with almond, cinnamon, and cloves, fake bakery odours, overly sweet candy aromas. Just a faint whisp of pipe tobacco from the other room, where I will be reading my own book.
Enjoy the silence, and feel free to doze.
I’ll wake you up later and we’ll go have a snack.
You’ll get home at a reasonable hour, and you can tell everyone that you were out shopping.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 06, 2011
THE BEST DECEMBER WEEKENDS
There's a lot you can do on Saturday or Sunday afternoons. At this time of year you could go out shopping - it's a traditional thing to do at this season - or you could visit relatives and socialize.
But maybe you do not feel like being around a whole host of people.
And some of them, you are convinced, are nuts.
Time for something new. Just for you.
Find a quiet place to read.
Everyone else may lose their minds, there is no need for you to do so.
Go someplace where no one will disturb you, crack open that new volume, and settle in.
If you plan it right, you'll have several hours before you need to see anyone else, and there will be a nice hot cup of tea and a comfy throw rug in your secret refuge.
As you languorously stretch your legs, you flip the page and discover an entirely new world.
Your brow furrows, and fully distracted you relish this moment.
Elsewhere in the city the host of holiday shoppers descends, rabid-dog like, on a twenty percent off sale, mercilessly ripping some poor sales girl limb from limb, splattering her innocent blood against the plate glass and holiday ornaments. Charming trinkets fly through the air like so many missiles, shattering against craniums, seriously wounding random victims in the crowd - they are quickly stripped of all clothing and born aloft, insensate, trembling, limp. Trophies! A fevered mob breaks every bottle in the perfume department, becoming drunk and impassioned from the heady fragrances.
It's a scene of utter chaos, any moment now the riot squad will come bursting in, guns and pepperspray blazing and big night-sticks at ready, before they too are drawn into the frenzy, squealing "oh hey, the missus would LOVE that" as they pull out their credit cards, pressing up against an ecstatic cashier.
They are butch and giddy in their macho outfits.
Sweating, moaning, utterly aglow.
And over all this, a repetitive metallic screeching of carols.
But it is very different where you are. Your brow furrows as the precious fantasy presented in the crisp white pages enchants you, and your lips part slightly - your breathing quickens in anticipation.
Oh, this is just perfect! What a splendid afternoon this is going to be!
Later, after four or five enthralling chapters, you deliciously stretch.
Now, where's that cup of tea?
And some nice buttery short-bread! Cake!
The warmth and peacefulness you experience are delightful.
Doing this was so much better than being out in the cold, surrounded by insane and unlikable people.
If only it could always be like this.
Next weekend, more reading!
You have had a MUCH better afternoon than anyone you know.
And you're not going to share it with them.
Hah! It's all yours!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But maybe you do not feel like being around a whole host of people.
And some of them, you are convinced, are nuts.
Time for something new. Just for you.
Find a quiet place to read.
Everyone else may lose their minds, there is no need for you to do so.
Go someplace where no one will disturb you, crack open that new volume, and settle in.
If you plan it right, you'll have several hours before you need to see anyone else, and there will be a nice hot cup of tea and a comfy throw rug in your secret refuge.
As you languorously stretch your legs, you flip the page and discover an entirely new world.
Your brow furrows, and fully distracted you relish this moment.
Elsewhere in the city the host of holiday shoppers descends, rabid-dog like, on a twenty percent off sale, mercilessly ripping some poor sales girl limb from limb, splattering her innocent blood against the plate glass and holiday ornaments. Charming trinkets fly through the air like so many missiles, shattering against craniums, seriously wounding random victims in the crowd - they are quickly stripped of all clothing and born aloft, insensate, trembling, limp. Trophies! A fevered mob breaks every bottle in the perfume department, becoming drunk and impassioned from the heady fragrances.
It's a scene of utter chaos, any moment now the riot squad will come bursting in, guns and pepperspray blazing and big night-sticks at ready, before they too are drawn into the frenzy, squealing "oh hey, the missus would LOVE that" as they pull out their credit cards, pressing up against an ecstatic cashier.
They are butch and giddy in their macho outfits.
Sweating, moaning, utterly aglow.
And over all this, a repetitive metallic screeching of carols.
But it is very different where you are. Your brow furrows as the precious fantasy presented in the crisp white pages enchants you, and your lips part slightly - your breathing quickens in anticipation.
Oh, this is just perfect! What a splendid afternoon this is going to be!
Later, after four or five enthralling chapters, you deliciously stretch.
Now, where's that cup of tea?
And some nice buttery short-bread! Cake!
The warmth and peacefulness you experience are delightful.
Doing this was so much better than being out in the cold, surrounded by insane and unlikable people.
If only it could always be like this.
Next weekend, more reading!
You have had a MUCH better afternoon than anyone you know.
And you're not going to share it with them.
Hah! It's all yours!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, December 31, 2010
CROTCHETY RESOLUTIONS
At the end of the year it is more realistic to review the past twelve months than to make positive resolutions for the next twelve months.
All the high-minded hoohah that you come up with between now and the falling ball will seem silly and jejune in the grim dawn light, while your head throbs from celebrating your brand new self too strenuously the previous night. You wish you had never been so self-confident, and your resolve falters....... a trembling hand reaches for the last cheap box of Christmas chocolates.........
It is far less futile to formulate a better definition of oneself in any case, than to engage in overly optimistic forward thinking.
In that vein, I shall NOT try to be a better person in 2011.
Not because I think I am perfect, but because I know that progress is gradual, and depends on evolving circumstance.
I am Dutch. By definition, I am stubborn. When I grow old, I will be cranky and have complete disregard for other people sharing this world with me.
FELIX SIT ANNUS NOVUS
In the past year I have spent way too much time around people with whom I have little in common. While I've enjoyed what half-assed companionship they provided, the one-sided aggravation has been cumulative.
That will stop.
I have given money to street people every day for many years. When someone is desperate, cold-shouldering them is neither helpful nor particularly human. Yes, some of them will make bad choices regarding money received. Once I hand over the cash I am not concerned with its further circulation.
That will continue.
My relationship with Savage Kitten is no longer what it was at the beginning of this year. No, I do not really understand the hows and whys of the change - and given that passion has been replaced with a good and sturdy friendship, I shall not try to make sense out of it. What's over is over.
Her love-life is no longer my bailiwick.
Desperately searching for another girlfriend is NOT part of the programme - perhaps the desperation is, but the searching isn't. If I find another sparkling young lady with whom to eat dinner, or one who wishes to engage in calmly passionate friction, I'll be delighted. If not, I shall likely grow ever more eccentric and misanthropic. Happily so.
That too is personal growth.
Some things are not worth drinking. In that category are Starbucks beverages, diet sodas, cheap bourbon, champagne, and flavoured vodkas. All of which I have mostly avoided in the past year. That avoidance will be maintained. It's conducive to good clean living and mental health.
Life is too short to swill garbage.
There is a strong likelihood that my smoking will prove unappealing to the opposite sex. The rich earthy perfumes of Latakia and Perique are entirely at odds with potpourri, stick-on air fresheners, perfumed candles, plus anything and everything that falls into the Hello-Kitty category of aesthetic appreciation.
Tough. Got a match?
Comfortable feet and a warm bed are purely wonderful. Good shoes, nice socks. Poofy comforters, crisp sheets, and pillows both fluffy and firm.
Never go to bed sweaty, always have one or two stuffed animals with you when you sleep. When all else pales, this is a code to live by.
Make sure to twiddle your toes.
Happy New Year.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
All the high-minded hoohah that you come up with between now and the falling ball will seem silly and jejune in the grim dawn light, while your head throbs from celebrating your brand new self too strenuously the previous night. You wish you had never been so self-confident, and your resolve falters....... a trembling hand reaches for the last cheap box of Christmas chocolates.........
It is far less futile to formulate a better definition of oneself in any case, than to engage in overly optimistic forward thinking.
In that vein, I shall NOT try to be a better person in 2011.
Not because I think I am perfect, but because I know that progress is gradual, and depends on evolving circumstance.
I am Dutch. By definition, I am stubborn. When I grow old, I will be cranky and have complete disregard for other people sharing this world with me.
FELIX SIT ANNUS NOVUS
In the past year I have spent way too much time around people with whom I have little in common. While I've enjoyed what half-assed companionship they provided, the one-sided aggravation has been cumulative.
That will stop.
I have given money to street people every day for many years. When someone is desperate, cold-shouldering them is neither helpful nor particularly human. Yes, some of them will make bad choices regarding money received. Once I hand over the cash I am not concerned with its further circulation.
That will continue.
My relationship with Savage Kitten is no longer what it was at the beginning of this year. No, I do not really understand the hows and whys of the change - and given that passion has been replaced with a good and sturdy friendship, I shall not try to make sense out of it. What's over is over.
Her love-life is no longer my bailiwick.
Desperately searching for another girlfriend is NOT part of the programme - perhaps the desperation is, but the searching isn't. If I find another sparkling young lady with whom to eat dinner, or one who wishes to engage in calmly passionate friction, I'll be delighted. If not, I shall likely grow ever more eccentric and misanthropic. Happily so.
That too is personal growth.
Some things are not worth drinking. In that category are Starbucks beverages, diet sodas, cheap bourbon, champagne, and flavoured vodkas. All of which I have mostly avoided in the past year. That avoidance will be maintained. It's conducive to good clean living and mental health.
Life is too short to swill garbage.
There is a strong likelihood that my smoking will prove unappealing to the opposite sex. The rich earthy perfumes of Latakia and Perique are entirely at odds with potpourri, stick-on air fresheners, perfumed candles, plus anything and everything that falls into the Hello-Kitty category of aesthetic appreciation.
Tough. Got a match?
Comfortable feet and a warm bed are purely wonderful. Good shoes, nice socks. Poofy comforters, crisp sheets, and pillows both fluffy and firm.
Never go to bed sweaty, always have one or two stuffed animals with you when you sleep. When all else pales, this is a code to live by.
Make sure to twiddle your toes.
Happy New Year.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, December 26, 2010
TECH SUPPORT HEATHENS!
It turns out that today I am not alone in the office.
Those of you who tuned in to yesterday's exciting episode of 'Life of Toad' will have learned that I am hiding out at my desk in the accounting department much more often these days, due to the complete collapse of a twenty-one year affair with a wonderful woman who is now just a roommate, and you will consequently understand that the umpty-umpth floor of a building in the financial district of San Francisco is a logical place for me to be during Christmas weekend.
But today I am not the only person here.
No, there is NO petite and screamingly intelligent Cantonese-American female college student with bright eyes and small hands keeping me company. If you actually thought that, your rich fantasies and my desperate wishful-thinking overlap remarkably, and we both need counseling.
Or we need to finally meet in real life.
Call me!
Instead, the tech-support department is here. I can hear their dulcet voices from several aisles away, happily discussing where to shove those batteries.
And what to do with the extra screws.
The bastards ate MY cookies!!!
I was counting on having some stale cookies as a 'breakfast - lunch - teatime snack', to follow yesterday's 'breakfast - lunch - teatime - festive Christmas dinner' of stale cookies.
Stale cookies are the perfect holiday paradigm this year.
But they're gone. All gone. Every single one of them. Not even a crumb left.
Greedy pigs.
Tech Support also had a picnic in the brand new office kitchen!
It smells richly treifish in there, I can see the remains of a pack of prosciutto, pancetta, salame of some kind, a rolled sandwich meat rich with chunks of lard, cheeses (dairy with meat? Feh!), mustard, mayo .......
There's a loaf of bread and a jar of pickles there too.
No wonder their voices are dulcet - they're remarkably well-fed!
I'm surprised I don't hear them belching.
They devoured the stale cookies for dessert, the intemperate sadists!
Stuffed and insatiable!
The OPS department will be SO pissed off tomorrow to discover all the stale cookies gone.
Along with the petro-cheese spread, the dry pepper crackers, and the blue-cheese pretzel niblets, those stale cookies were a seasonal gift to OPS from a rep-group keen to keep our business.
I wouldn't be surprised if OPS was planning to snack upon the stale cookies tomorrow.
I'll just have to let them know that Tech Support ATE them all.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Those of you who tuned in to yesterday's exciting episode of 'Life of Toad' will have learned that I am hiding out at my desk in the accounting department much more often these days, due to the complete collapse of a twenty-one year affair with a wonderful woman who is now just a roommate, and you will consequently understand that the umpty-umpth floor of a building in the financial district of San Francisco is a logical place for me to be during Christmas weekend.
But today I am not the only person here.
No, there is NO petite and screamingly intelligent Cantonese-American female college student with bright eyes and small hands keeping me company. If you actually thought that, your rich fantasies and my desperate wishful-thinking overlap remarkably, and we both need counseling.
Or we need to finally meet in real life.
Call me!
Instead, the tech-support department is here. I can hear their dulcet voices from several aisles away, happily discussing where to shove those batteries.
And what to do with the extra screws.
The bastards ate MY cookies!!!
I was counting on having some stale cookies as a 'breakfast - lunch - teatime snack', to follow yesterday's 'breakfast - lunch - teatime - festive Christmas dinner' of stale cookies.
Stale cookies are the perfect holiday paradigm this year.
But they're gone. All gone. Every single one of them. Not even a crumb left.
Greedy pigs.
Tech Support also had a picnic in the brand new office kitchen!
It smells richly treifish in there, I can see the remains of a pack of prosciutto, pancetta, salame of some kind, a rolled sandwich meat rich with chunks of lard, cheeses (dairy with meat? Feh!), mustard, mayo .......
There's a loaf of bread and a jar of pickles there too.
No wonder their voices are dulcet - they're remarkably well-fed!
I'm surprised I don't hear them belching.
They devoured the stale cookies for dessert, the intemperate sadists!
Stuffed and insatiable!
The OPS department will be SO pissed off tomorrow to discover all the stale cookies gone.
Along with the petro-cheese spread, the dry pepper crackers, and the blue-cheese pretzel niblets, those stale cookies were a seasonal gift to OPS from a rep-group keen to keep our business.
I wouldn't be surprised if OPS was planning to snack upon the stale cookies tomorrow.
I'll just have to let them know that Tech Support ATE them all.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, December 25, 2010
NOT CULINARILY CHRISTIAN
Today is the longest day of the year for non-Christmassy people. Many Chinese-Americans and Jews are not particularly Christmassy. They are aware of the holiday, but other than that they'll be eating Chinese food tonight it doesn't really signify very much - it's sort of a quintessential wasp dealio.
As you may have gathered, I am rather waspy.
New-Amsterdam Dutch-American mixed with bits and pieces of elsewhere white, Calvinists in the family woodwork, culturally Anglo-American. And I'm quite fine with that - despite my Judaic and Sinitic interests and involvements, I have no urge to become Jewish or Chinese.
But I am not a Christmassy sort of person.
How you deal with Christmas really tells you where you stand on the 'in-out-other' spectrum.
It's nice to know where one stands.........
Savage Kitten spent the morning with her boyfriend.
She did the afternoon shift with her friends at the soup kitchen.
She'll be with her siblings and kinfolk this evening.
Apparently I'm now at fourth place.
Distant fourth.
I'm just a roommate.
[Yes, she now has a boyfriend. I've talked to the fellow a few times, he's actually a nice chap. She squeals with delight when she's on the phone with him - it's very cute when she does that. Not that that does bugger all for me. Other than hugely increasing the likelihood of indigestion, that is. Bile, agida, kopfvaytik. Fingers clenching.
Due to mobility issues he can't visit her in the apartment that we share - uphill, upstairs - which means I don't have to be around him. At all. Ever. Which is fine. Totally fine. Excellent, in fact. I am cool with that. Absolutely. Boo-yah.]
When she and I were a couple, I was mostly at second place. She never had the courage to tell her relatives about me. We'd joke that when her nephews were adults, she would perhaps eventually introduce me as 'uncle secret lover'.
I guess that means I'm now merely 'uncle secret ex-lover', if anything.
She has however mentioned her new boyfriend to her kin - it's great that she finally has the courage to admit to them that she has a life of her own.
That, in addition to being a good Chinatown girl, Cantonese daughter, Chinese younger sister, she is actually a human being.
She's finally facing what she is, and what she wants to be.
She's changed a lot in the past year.
There have also been some changes at my end.
Well, one.
I've always been aware of what I was, but that one change does cast everything in a different light.
So, factoring in that ONE little thing, I've made a short self-descriptive list.
I am:
Not involved in a relationship.
Not comfortable.
Not Chinese.
Not Jewish.
Not Dutch.
Not Don Juan.
Not a family man.
Not good at dancing.
Not particularly social.
Not enjoying the holidays.
Not going to be having Xmas dinner.
Not going out for Chinese food tonight.
If I went to a Chinese restaurant this evening by myself, I would simply be advertising that I'm a loser white-guy with no relatives and no family.
I can still remember what a thoroughly depressing feeling that was, back in the eighties.
There's going to be a lavish Christmas spread at the bar which is sort of a home away from home when I'm tired of hiding out at the office in the evening.
But no, I don't have any intention of going there till long after everything edible has disappeared.
You see, the past few times that there was festive food there, no one extended an invitation to me to have some till well over an hour had passed. I kept hearing comments off to the side from other patrons to the effect that it was delicious, my heavens scrumptious, gracious what fun, mmmm so goooooooood - hell, eating so pre-occupied everybody that I couldn't even get a conversation going edgewise - but by the time it was finally suggested to me that I should have some too I had lost all trace of an appetite.
I may not be above the salt, but I refuse to be an afterthought.
You can offer your damned leftovers to someone else.
I'll just have my Scotch and water, thank you very much.
Yeah, I know. I'm far too sensitive. Normal people aren't so stuck on social niceties like being made welcome, asked to eat, invited to partake and enjoy - they just boldly belly up to the spread and help themselves.
We're all friends here.
I should relax. Yep.
I'm not actually planning to eat bugger-all today.
Well, maybe some stale cookies. I'm at the office at present, where due to the festive season there are plenty of stale cookies. Stale cookies are traditional holiday fare.
I've been spending a lot of time at the office lately. Evenings. Weekends.
Often I am alone here. But I'm not lonely.
I rather enjoy the quiet.
Although occasionally I do rend the silence by playing some screamingly loud bhangra.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
As you may have gathered, I am rather waspy.
New-Amsterdam Dutch-American mixed with bits and pieces of elsewhere white, Calvinists in the family woodwork, culturally Anglo-American. And I'm quite fine with that - despite my Judaic and Sinitic interests and involvements, I have no urge to become Jewish or Chinese.
But I am not a Christmassy sort of person.
How you deal with Christmas really tells you where you stand on the 'in-out-other' spectrum.
It's nice to know where one stands.........
Savage Kitten spent the morning with her boyfriend.
She did the afternoon shift with her friends at the soup kitchen.
She'll be with her siblings and kinfolk this evening.
Apparently I'm now at fourth place.
Distant fourth.
I'm just a roommate.
[Yes, she now has a boyfriend. I've talked to the fellow a few times, he's actually a nice chap. She squeals with delight when she's on the phone with him - it's very cute when she does that. Not that that does bugger all for me. Other than hugely increasing the likelihood of indigestion, that is. Bile, agida, kopfvaytik. Fingers clenching.
Due to mobility issues he can't visit her in the apartment that we share - uphill, upstairs - which means I don't have to be around him. At all. Ever. Which is fine. Totally fine. Excellent, in fact. I am cool with that. Absolutely. Boo-yah.]
When she and I were a couple, I was mostly at second place. She never had the courage to tell her relatives about me. We'd joke that when her nephews were adults, she would perhaps eventually introduce me as 'uncle secret lover'.
I guess that means I'm now merely 'uncle secret ex-lover', if anything.
She has however mentioned her new boyfriend to her kin - it's great that she finally has the courage to admit to them that she has a life of her own.
That, in addition to being a good Chinatown girl, Cantonese daughter, Chinese younger sister, she is actually a human being.
She's finally facing what she is, and what she wants to be.
She's changed a lot in the past year.
There have also been some changes at my end.
Well, one.
I've always been aware of what I was, but that one change does cast everything in a different light.
So, factoring in that ONE little thing, I've made a short self-descriptive list.
I am:
Not involved in a relationship.
Not comfortable.
Not Chinese.
Not Jewish.
Not Dutch.
Not Don Juan.
Not a family man.
Not good at dancing.
Not particularly social.
Not enjoying the holidays.
Not going to be having Xmas dinner.
Not going out for Chinese food tonight.
If I went to a Chinese restaurant this evening by myself, I would simply be advertising that I'm a loser white-guy with no relatives and no family.
I can still remember what a thoroughly depressing feeling that was, back in the eighties.
There's going to be a lavish Christmas spread at the bar which is sort of a home away from home when I'm tired of hiding out at the office in the evening.
But no, I don't have any intention of going there till long after everything edible has disappeared.
You see, the past few times that there was festive food there, no one extended an invitation to me to have some till well over an hour had passed. I kept hearing comments off to the side from other patrons to the effect that it was delicious, my heavens scrumptious, gracious what fun, mmmm so goooooooood - hell, eating so pre-occupied everybody that I couldn't even get a conversation going edgewise - but by the time it was finally suggested to me that I should have some too I had lost all trace of an appetite.
I may not be above the salt, but I refuse to be an afterthought.
You can offer your damned leftovers to someone else.
I'll just have my Scotch and water, thank you very much.
Yeah, I know. I'm far too sensitive. Normal people aren't so stuck on social niceties like being made welcome, asked to eat, invited to partake and enjoy - they just boldly belly up to the spread and help themselves.
We're all friends here.
I should relax. Yep.
I'm not actually planning to eat bugger-all today.
Well, maybe some stale cookies. I'm at the office at present, where due to the festive season there are plenty of stale cookies. Stale cookies are traditional holiday fare.
I've been spending a lot of time at the office lately. Evenings. Weekends.
Often I am alone here. But I'm not lonely.
I rather enjoy the quiet.
Although occasionally I do rend the silence by playing some screamingly loud bhangra.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, December 23, 2010
STICK THIS IN YOUR CHRISTMAS FAIRY!
What does a half-crazed Dutch-American pipe-smoker want for Christmas? Someone asked, and even though I am the arch-type of bah-humbugger around this time of year, and vehemently opposed to celebrating the birthday of that overweight child molester in the red suit, I should probably answer.
Who knows, I may actually get what I want.
Most of it will be framed in the negative.
CHRISTMAS WISH LIST
NO pipes - I own well over a hundred, I only smoke about twenty of them regularly, and I have picky taste. If you can find an unsmoked Comoys Blue Riband squat bulldog with no dings or scratches, fine. You won't, though.
NO tobacco - did I ever mention my stockpile? I've got more pipe-tobacco stashed away than you can shake a stick at. Besides, Balkan Sobranie (in the white tin, $300 and up on e-bay) hasn't been manufactured in years.
NO pornography - it only depresses me. Why is it that every girl in a smut-film has a vacant expression and tattoos? Can't they hire talented food-photographers, and clean happy women, to make nice light-hearted filth?
NO pajamas or socks - unless you are a small woman with bright eyes and a sense of humour I won't model them anyway. But you'd need a sense of humour - no amount of aesthetic blindness would help.
NO fruitcake - it makes me think of Texas, even if it's edible fruitcake - a contradiction in terms. What I use to keep the kitchen door from slamming open and shut during storms is actually an old sock filled with pebbles.
NO chocolate - I don't dislike chocolate at all. I eat it. All of it. Then I spend several hours kvetching about how I should NEVER have done so. Eaten it. All of it. At one fell swoop. I have no self control. That's your fault.
NO teapots - the last one I acquired cost a few hundred dollars - fine purple sand ware from China, made during the nineteenth century. A nice antique. The collection isn't perfect, but I really do not need another one.
NO video-games - electronic masturbation isn't my thing. Running around killing aliens and collecting magic weapons is just a metaphor for dealing with a messed-up love-life or teenage sexual frustration.
NO dried fruits - do you know what those do to the depressed fifty-year old Dutch-American digestive system? The only fruits I eat are chilies and tomatoes. Oh, and eggplant. Plus maraschinos in my Manhattans.
NO Santa dolls - did I ever mention my adventures with voodoo? A Santa doll would have needles stuck in it, burning matches applied to the beard, limbs torn off, and vile curses chanted at it in lugubrious tones.
Bah. Humbug.
See? Isn't that simple?
The whole 'Fat-Red-Pervert' holiday is so easy, once you follow my instructions.
Tell your folks, tell your friends. Thanks to me your holiday stress is gone.
I intend to grumble, scowl, and smoke my pipe all weekend. With several cups of tea.
Perhaps I'll obsessively read and reread all the most degenerate passages in Nabokov.
Really, spending Christmas with Ada and Van Veen doing dirty things will be just perfect.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Who knows, I may actually get what I want.
Most of it will be framed in the negative.
CHRISTMAS WISH LIST
NO pipes - I own well over a hundred, I only smoke about twenty of them regularly, and I have picky taste. If you can find an unsmoked Comoys Blue Riband squat bulldog with no dings or scratches, fine. You won't, though.
NO tobacco - did I ever mention my stockpile? I've got more pipe-tobacco stashed away than you can shake a stick at. Besides, Balkan Sobranie (in the white tin, $300 and up on e-bay) hasn't been manufactured in years.
NO pornography - it only depresses me. Why is it that every girl in a smut-film has a vacant expression and tattoos? Can't they hire talented food-photographers, and clean happy women, to make nice light-hearted filth?
NO pajamas or socks - unless you are a small woman with bright eyes and a sense of humour I won't model them anyway. But you'd need a sense of humour - no amount of aesthetic blindness would help.
NO fruitcake - it makes me think of Texas, even if it's edible fruitcake - a contradiction in terms. What I use to keep the kitchen door from slamming open and shut during storms is actually an old sock filled with pebbles.
NO chocolate - I don't dislike chocolate at all. I eat it. All of it. Then I spend several hours kvetching about how I should NEVER have done so. Eaten it. All of it. At one fell swoop. I have no self control. That's your fault.
NO teapots - the last one I acquired cost a few hundred dollars - fine purple sand ware from China, made during the nineteenth century. A nice antique. The collection isn't perfect, but I really do not need another one.
NO video-games - electronic masturbation isn't my thing. Running around killing aliens and collecting magic weapons is just a metaphor for dealing with a messed-up love-life or teenage sexual frustration.
NO dried fruits - do you know what those do to the depressed fifty-year old Dutch-American digestive system? The only fruits I eat are chilies and tomatoes. Oh, and eggplant. Plus maraschinos in my Manhattans.
NO Santa dolls - did I ever mention my adventures with voodoo? A Santa doll would have needles stuck in it, burning matches applied to the beard, limbs torn off, and vile curses chanted at it in lugubrious tones.
Bah. Humbug.
See? Isn't that simple?
The whole 'Fat-Red-Pervert' holiday is so easy, once you follow my instructions.
Tell your folks, tell your friends. Thanks to me your holiday stress is gone.
I intend to grumble, scowl, and smoke my pipe all weekend. With several cups of tea.
Perhaps I'll obsessively read and reread all the most degenerate passages in Nabokov.
Really, spending Christmas with Ada and Van Veen doing dirty things will be just perfect.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
SAY UNCLE!
Yesterday I sent off two packages that were mostly bubble-wrap.
A porcelain bowl to my uncle and aunt in Canada, and a large ceramic plate to my second-cousin who got married this past year. There was, of course, a holiday-inspired reason.
I’ve never seen my second cousin (I think the correct term is actually first-cousin-and-a-half; he’s the son of my uncle's daughter the brilliant mediaeval scholar). Though I was invited to the wedding, making the long trek from California to Martha's Vineyard to be among three hundred well-bred strangers was too daunting a prospect. We know each other, and we know of each other. He is a Harvard chap, film maker, super intelligent. Facebook friend.
Just no real-world contact yet.
But I have actually met my uncle and aunt in Canada.
OUT ON THE FRONT LAWN HOWLING AT THE MOON
Every year they call and ask when Savage Kitten and I will visit for the holidays, or visit them in Massachusetts for summer. They are yearningly sincere in their invitations.
But it will probably never happen; each year it is more unlikely than the last.
Not because of the split between Savage Kitten and myself (even though that would necessitate two separate rooms), nor that the Christian hue to the feast conflicts with my own personal hashkofo, but primarily because right around the holidays I turn into a werewolf.
I am not holidayish.
In the slightest.
Bah humbug .
It’s about the kids.
My cousins are all happily married producers of offspring. Children ranging in age from shrieking infant to young adult. Multiple young adults.
I am their parents' age. Technically that makes me an old fart.
The prospect of being introduced to several younger persons as 'uncle Atboth' frightens the crap out of me.
I do not think of myself as 'avuncular' in the slightest, and would vastly prefer to be the disreputable male relative whom we never talk about in front of the little ones.
Not the kindly and respectable kinsman whom we are glad to include in our warm family gathering this joyous season, but the rowdy eccentric who jacked a police-cruiser and spun wheelies in the town square, the bad man who invited a bunch of cheerful strippers over on Christmas night to drink egg-nog out of your finest crystal and sleep in your living room.
Really, I'm just not uncle material.
I don't feel like it.
Please hide your teenagers - they are a bad influence.
AFTERTHOUGHT
Dogs and cats like me. Either they recognize a kindred spirit, or they are just being patronizing. Children are the same way.
It's probably the smell.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A porcelain bowl to my uncle and aunt in Canada, and a large ceramic plate to my second-cousin who got married this past year. There was, of course, a holiday-inspired reason.
I’ve never seen my second cousin (I think the correct term is actually first-cousin-and-a-half; he’s the son of my uncle's daughter the brilliant mediaeval scholar). Though I was invited to the wedding, making the long trek from California to Martha's Vineyard to be among three hundred well-bred strangers was too daunting a prospect. We know each other, and we know of each other. He is a Harvard chap, film maker, super intelligent. Facebook friend.
Just no real-world contact yet.
But I have actually met my uncle and aunt in Canada.
OUT ON THE FRONT LAWN HOWLING AT THE MOON
Every year they call and ask when Savage Kitten and I will visit for the holidays, or visit them in Massachusetts for summer. They are yearningly sincere in their invitations.
But it will probably never happen; each year it is more unlikely than the last.
Not because of the split between Savage Kitten and myself (even though that would necessitate two separate rooms), nor that the Christian hue to the feast conflicts with my own personal hashkofo, but primarily because right around the holidays I turn into a werewolf.
I am not holidayish.
In the slightest.
Bah humbug .
It’s about the kids.
My cousins are all happily married producers of offspring. Children ranging in age from shrieking infant to young adult. Multiple young adults.
I am their parents' age. Technically that makes me an old fart.
The prospect of being introduced to several younger persons as 'uncle Atboth' frightens the crap out of me.
I do not think of myself as 'avuncular' in the slightest, and would vastly prefer to be the disreputable male relative whom we never talk about in front of the little ones.
Not the kindly and respectable kinsman whom we are glad to include in our warm family gathering this joyous season, but the rowdy eccentric who jacked a police-cruiser and spun wheelies in the town square, the bad man who invited a bunch of cheerful strippers over on Christmas night to drink egg-nog out of your finest crystal and sleep in your living room.
Really, I'm just not uncle material.
I don't feel like it.
Please hide your teenagers - they are a bad influence.
AFTERTHOUGHT
Dogs and cats like me. Either they recognize a kindred spirit, or they are just being patronizing. Children are the same way.
It's probably the smell.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
DIM SUM! OR, NOTHING SAYS CHRISTMAS LIKE CHINESE FOOD!
In a previous life I must have done something very wrong. Why else would I be so surrounded by unimaginative eaters?
I realize this today because the departmental holiday lunch is coming up.
Naturally I suggested dim sum.
There have been sub-audible howls.
Several years back there were slightly more Asians in finance, and consequently my scheme would have stood a very good chance of succeeding. At present, excluding the person who had a meltdown a few months ago (now out on disability), there are five times more NON-ASIANS than Asians.
So we're probably NOT going here:
城景 CITY VIEW RESTAURANT
662 Commercial Street
(between Montgomery and Kearny).
San Francisco, CA 94111
415-398-2838
They've got some pretty darn good dim sum at City View. It's close to the office. Clean, fast, comfy, and cheerfully noisy..... Quite the best place to go. And really, nothing says Christmas spirit better than Chinese food - just ask any Jew you know!
[Nope, none of them in accounting either. Jesus, I must have been a right son-of-a-bitch in that previous life! What the hell did I do?!?]
But of course, there are some things that today's sensitive suburbanite will not touch with a ten foot pole. Let alone chopsticks.
Ha gau (蝦餃) for instance. It just looks too pretty to eat. Minced shrimp, or shrimp and pork, in a delicate pale slightly translucent bonnet, steamed........ this is the Hello Kitty of dumplings.
It is very beautiful
Suburban food does NOT look beautiful. Ever.
Siu mai (燒賣) are another example. That wrapper looks suspiciously wrinkly, and it's open on top! Good lord, you can see what 'they' filled it with! We don't care that it's high quality pork! Juicy and oh so good within the little wheat-dough pocket!
Fung jau (鳳爪) are definitely off the list. Who wants to eat chicken feet? Even if they are yummy and delicious? Those poor feetless birds!
Got any tempeh or wheat germ instead? Anybody want to make a run to Mickey D's?
Ngau yiuk kau (牛肉球) are just meat balls, you can't fool us. We've been to Italian restaurants. We're not morons!
Chu cheung fan (猪腸粉) ....? NO! Especially not after the snarky Dutchman explains what the name means ('pig intestine noodle'), because of its appealing slick pearlescent appearance! To us, no recognizable part of an animal looks good. Yes, we can tell it's actually a steamed soft rice noodle sheet around delicious fresh shrimp or beef, but we can't get that image out of our heads. We have no imagination.
Dau chup pai gwat (豆汁排骨) don't appeal to us either. They should use a sweet sticky sauce instead of a savoury, garlicky, fragrant, scrumptious black-bean sauce. And can't they debone the spareribs as is common in fast-food lunch places? We don't like bones - they remind us of Bambi. And Thumper.
Do they serve anything else?
DOT -- DOT -- DOT
The problem with woo gou (芋角 taro cake), lobak gou (蘿蔔糕 daikon cake), and ma tai gou (馬蹄糕 water chestnut cake) is that there is no meat in them. Well, not more than a smidge in the middle one..... Yes, I know we objected to everything that did have meat already. But we've been conditioned to crave meat. And that stuff looks like goo.
Surely they can wrap a steak or a hamburger in a dumpling skin?
Etcetera.
All in all it's probably a darn good thing that we'll probably choose a random Mexican place instead. Red and green salsa is ever so festive, and we can have cheese on everything!
I won't have to translate anything either. That would've put a serious crimp in my eating.
And it's dining as a group that's important. The shared experience and all that.
All of us together, we've made it through another year, huzzah and hooray.
I might lose sight of that if I enjoyed myself too much.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I realize this today because the departmental holiday lunch is coming up.
Naturally I suggested dim sum.
There have been sub-audible howls.
Several years back there were slightly more Asians in finance, and consequently my scheme would have stood a very good chance of succeeding. At present, excluding the person who had a meltdown a few months ago (now out on disability), there are five times more NON-ASIANS than Asians.
So we're probably NOT going here:
城景 CITY VIEW RESTAURANT
662 Commercial Street
(between Montgomery and Kearny).
San Francisco, CA 94111
415-398-2838
They've got some pretty darn good dim sum at City View. It's close to the office. Clean, fast, comfy, and cheerfully noisy..... Quite the best place to go. And really, nothing says Christmas spirit better than Chinese food - just ask any Jew you know!
[Nope, none of them in accounting either. Jesus, I must have been a right son-of-a-bitch in that previous life! What the hell did I do?!?]
But of course, there are some things that today's sensitive suburbanite will not touch with a ten foot pole. Let alone chopsticks.
Ha gau (蝦餃) for instance. It just looks too pretty to eat. Minced shrimp, or shrimp and pork, in a delicate pale slightly translucent bonnet, steamed........ this is the Hello Kitty of dumplings.
It is very beautiful
Suburban food does NOT look beautiful. Ever.
Siu mai (燒賣) are another example. That wrapper looks suspiciously wrinkly, and it's open on top! Good lord, you can see what 'they' filled it with! We don't care that it's high quality pork! Juicy and oh so good within the little wheat-dough pocket!
Fung jau (鳳爪) are definitely off the list. Who wants to eat chicken feet? Even if they are yummy and delicious? Those poor feetless birds!
Got any tempeh or wheat germ instead? Anybody want to make a run to Mickey D's?
Ngau yiuk kau (牛肉球) are just meat balls, you can't fool us. We've been to Italian restaurants. We're not morons!
Chu cheung fan (猪腸粉) ....? NO! Especially not after the snarky Dutchman explains what the name means ('pig intestine noodle'), because of its appealing slick pearlescent appearance! To us, no recognizable part of an animal looks good. Yes, we can tell it's actually a steamed soft rice noodle sheet around delicious fresh shrimp or beef, but we can't get that image out of our heads. We have no imagination.
Dau chup pai gwat (豆汁排骨) don't appeal to us either. They should use a sweet sticky sauce instead of a savoury, garlicky, fragrant, scrumptious black-bean sauce. And can't they debone the spareribs as is common in fast-food lunch places? We don't like bones - they remind us of Bambi. And Thumper.
Do they serve anything else?
DOT -- DOT -- DOT
The problem with woo gou (芋角 taro cake), lobak gou (蘿蔔糕 daikon cake), and ma tai gou (馬蹄糕 water chestnut cake) is that there is no meat in them. Well, not more than a smidge in the middle one..... Yes, I know we objected to everything that did have meat already. But we've been conditioned to crave meat. And that stuff looks like goo.
Surely they can wrap a steak or a hamburger in a dumpling skin?
Etcetera.
All in all it's probably a darn good thing that we'll probably choose a random Mexican place instead. Red and green salsa is ever so festive, and we can have cheese on everything!
I won't have to translate anything either. That would've put a serious crimp in my eating.
And it's dining as a group that's important. The shared experience and all that.
All of us together, we've made it through another year, huzzah and hooray.
I might lose sight of that if I enjoyed myself too much.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, December 11, 2009
FOX WAR ON CHRISTMAS!
Courtesy of an anonymous commenter on Dovbear's blog, we now know that FOX Broadcasting are a bunch of atheist, liberal, G-d-h-ting, Marxist, secular humanists.
Bill O'Reilly (the pope of FOX) insists that ONLY enemies of Christmas will wish people happy holidays and refer to the season as 'holiday' or 'the holidays' instead of calling a spade a spade.
In O'Reilly's world, bugger everyone who has different traditions, it's Christmas, guddammit.
What the anonymous commenter brought to light was this:
"HOLIDAY MUST HAVES FROM THE FOX SHOP!"http://shop.ecompanystore.com/foxnews/FOX_shop.asp
What?
The pope of FOX (Bill O'Reilly) is either a hypocrite or a dunce - his own church (pardon, "employer") has joined the WAR ON CHRISTMAS!
Fie! Fie! Fie!
[From WIKIPEDIA: "...the concept of a modern-day "War on Christmas" only became widely discussed in the United States and Canada during the first few years of the 2000s decade, often credited particularly to an exposure of the issue by American commentator Bill O'Reilly.
The claim among Brimelow, O'Reilly, and later a variety of prominent media figures and others was that any specific mention of the term "Christmas" or its religious aspects was being increasingly censored, avoided, or discouraged by a number of advertisers, retailers, government (prominently schools), and other public and secular organizations."
SOURCE: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/War_on_Christmas]
Given that Bill O'Reilly is certainly NO poster boy for Christian values, being a narrow-minded hateful right-wing s.o.b. with a foul temper (oh wait, never mind......... ).......... !
Strike that. Different tack.
Look, Bill, I accept that you and your evil masters at FOX are spineless and ethically deprived. Really. We treasure you people for being folks we can comfortably feel much better than.
That counts for very much, and we're grateful.
BUT COULD YOU AT LEAST TRY TO BE CONSISTENT??!!??
For instance, if one week you're gonna advocate that all not-quite-humans be encouraged to have abortions, and the next week you praise anti-abortionists, you can't blame us if we don't quite understand what you're thinking.
As another less than hypothetical example, if one of you avers that the poor are getting rich by screwing the system, and another one of you follows that by screaming that the system is gonna impoverish us all it's the apocalypse run fer the hills maw, shouldn't we be a little confused?
What do you really mean?
So also with the War on Christmas.
Or the War on the War on Christmas.
Or even the War against the War on the War on Christmas.
If, because of greed and an understandable desire to join in the bleeding of suckers which is traditional around this time of year, you join in on the War on Christmas, and call it the 'holiday', or 'holidays', surely you are sending mixed messages?
You can't have it both ways. Either you are outraged, furiously outraged(!) at the mercantile exploitation of sweet little baby Jesus' very own special magic joy-joy time, OR you are guilty of buying into the whole midwinter Germano-Celtic pine tree and fatman feast, trying to squeeze every last drop of lucre out of all the non-sectarians who aren't going to church on Christmas Eve because they need to hide expensive stuff under a decorated fire hazard in their living room.
It's one or the other.
Show some backbone, Billy. Some gumption. Go down there Billy and burn the gift shop down! Damn them for speaking of "Holiday Must Haves", damn them all. Curse them and their children and their children's children, and cast them out into the cold. Pitchforks and torches, pitchforks and torches - it's a matter of principle! Expunge them, Billy, show them what real Christians think of their vile opportunism. Be foul tempered. Possibly violent.
We know you can do it.
They're besmirching the holy name of FOX and innocent wee floofy Jesus and all that is good.
Money changers in the temple, Billy. Money changers in the temple.
Bill O'Reilly (the pope of FOX) insists that ONLY enemies of Christmas will wish people happy holidays and refer to the season as 'holiday' or 'the holidays' instead of calling a spade a spade.
In O'Reilly's world, bugger everyone who has different traditions, it's Christmas, guddammit.
What the anonymous commenter brought to light was this:
"HOLIDAY MUST HAVES FROM THE FOX SHOP!"http://shop.ecompanystore.com/foxnews/FOX_shop.asp
What?
The pope of FOX (Bill O'Reilly) is either a hypocrite or a dunce - his own church (pardon, "employer") has joined the WAR ON CHRISTMAS!
Fie! Fie! Fie!
[From WIKIPEDIA: "...the concept of a modern-day "War on Christmas" only became widely discussed in the United States and Canada during the first few years of the 2000s decade, often credited particularly to an exposure of the issue by American commentator Bill O'Reilly.
The claim among Brimelow, O'Reilly, and later a variety of prominent media figures and others was that any specific mention of the term "Christmas" or its religious aspects was being increasingly censored, avoided, or discouraged by a number of advertisers, retailers, government (prominently schools), and other public and secular organizations."
SOURCE: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/War_on_Christmas]
Given that Bill O'Reilly is certainly NO poster boy for Christian values, being a narrow-minded hateful right-wing s.o.b. with a foul temper (oh wait, never mind......... ).......... !
Strike that. Different tack.
Look, Bill, I accept that you and your evil masters at FOX are spineless and ethically deprived. Really. We treasure you people for being folks we can comfortably feel much better than.
That counts for very much, and we're grateful.
BUT COULD YOU AT LEAST TRY TO BE CONSISTENT??!!??
For instance, if one week you're gonna advocate that all not-quite-humans be encouraged to have abortions, and the next week you praise anti-abortionists, you can't blame us if we don't quite understand what you're thinking.
As another less than hypothetical example, if one of you avers that the poor are getting rich by screwing the system, and another one of you follows that by screaming that the system is gonna impoverish us all it's the apocalypse run fer the hills maw, shouldn't we be a little confused?
What do you really mean?
So also with the War on Christmas.
Or the War on the War on Christmas.
Or even the War against the War on the War on Christmas.
If, because of greed and an understandable desire to join in the bleeding of suckers which is traditional around this time of year, you join in on the War on Christmas, and call it the 'holiday', or 'holidays', surely you are sending mixed messages?
You can't have it both ways. Either you are outraged, furiously outraged(!) at the mercantile exploitation of sweet little baby Jesus' very own special magic joy-joy time, OR you are guilty of buying into the whole midwinter Germano-Celtic pine tree and fatman feast, trying to squeeze every last drop of lucre out of all the non-sectarians who aren't going to church on Christmas Eve because they need to hide expensive stuff under a decorated fire hazard in their living room.
It's one or the other.
Show some backbone, Billy. Some gumption. Go down there Billy and burn the gift shop down! Damn them for speaking of "Holiday Must Haves", damn them all. Curse them and their children and their children's children, and cast them out into the cold. Pitchforks and torches, pitchforks and torches - it's a matter of principle! Expunge them, Billy, show them what real Christians think of their vile opportunism. Be foul tempered. Possibly violent.
We know you can do it.
They're besmirching the holy name of FOX and innocent wee floofy Jesus and all that is good.
Money changers in the temple, Billy. Money changers in the temple.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
BOTH THE HEAT AND THE HUMIDITY
There are times when I wish that my apartment mate had already come home, because it's late-ish, there are crazies and weirdoes about, t...
