Years ago I saw her at the local food store, scoping out the pears. She was very small, and looked to be in her early teens. As I reached past her to grab a few for myself, I casually said "you should buy some, they're very good".
Later I saw her at the other check-out stand with two pears of her own in a plastic vegetable bag. It was all she bought.
Occasionally over the next few months I would see her again, usually in the fruit and vegetable department.
She almost always bought pears.
I'm sure she also bought one or two other things, but the pears were a constant.
Once when I passed the bus shelter up the block I could see her sitting down, using both hands to eat a juicy pear.
Guiltily she looked up and noticed me.
I smiled, she smiled. Then she returned to her pear.
A few months later, at the store, I asked her what she liked so much about pears.
"They aren't apples!"
She said this as if it was a revealed truth, with awe in her voice.
She admitted that she had never eaten pears before I told her to buy some.
She was happy that I had encouraged her to take that chance.
We didn't talk much that time.
I would have liked to, but it just isn't a good idea for an adult man to have a long conversation with a teenager, as I assumed her to be.
Especially a pretty teenager.
Several weeks later I ran into her again. More pears. Sometimes you found a pear with a rotten spot inside, she informed me, so you really had to examine each pear carefully. She was serious about this. Pears were very important.
As an afterthought, she mentioned that she often took a pear to SF State in the morning.
Interesting - she looked like a thirteen or fourteen year old, small and slender, no overt curves. University already? So I asked her what she was studying.
Predictably, it was business administration, already in the third year.
Many Chinese-Americans who go to SF State study that, or accounting.
"But I'm also majoring in American Literature - Southern writers!"
She didn't look college-age, didn't particularly sound like it either.
But what do I know? Chinese women often look younger than they are.
Even when they are quite elderly they are often well-preserved, having far fewer wrinkles than the average white woman of the same years, whose face may look like a road map of the Sierras.
I wished her well in her studies, then went into another aisle to finish my shopping.
One time I asked her why all she seemed to purchase was a few pears. Turns out that for most things she went to Stockton Street on the other side of the hill, so many more vegetables, and better prices.
But hardly any pears. Pears she bought here. She loved pears.
I told her about a pear orchard that a friend's father owned in North-Brabant when I was still living there. In April the trees would bloom, delicate little five-petalled white blossoms with a faint fragrance. Singly they don't really make much of an impression on the nose, but thousands of them together, ah, that truly smells like spring! It was ever so pleasant to walk in the shade of the trees and look up, where the morning sunlight gave radiance to the massed white specks. The grass underneath would still be cold and wet, but the warming air would carry the essence down among the trunks. Brabant in spring is beautiful.
After a few weeks the petals would fall, swirling and eddying. The area under the trees would still be cool and shady, because all the leaves had come out.
"But what about the fruit? When do they grow fruit?"
' The fruit is clearly discernible by summer, and ripens by September. Though some fruit is still developing as late as October. No, they don't gather all the fruit, but let some of it simply fall to the ground.
Then they would let the old horse that they didn't have the heart to send to the knackers into the orchard, to graze among the tall grass and nibble pears. '
"How nice that they let the horse retire - it must have enjoyed it's old age!"
' Yes, I think it did. In winter it stayed in the stable, with a nice thick blanket over it to keep it warm. Old horses can get arthritic, you see. My friend and his sister would visit it every day to make sure it was comfortable, and they'd bring it some pears to eat. '
She was absolutely enchanted by the idea that, somewhere in Europe, there was an old grey horse, in the autumn of its years, being cared for and happily munching fruit. The next time she saw me she mentioned the horse. And the time after that.
She hoped it had plenty of pears to eat.
What I never told her was that the horse had been alive twenty years before, it had surely "gone to sleep" a long time past.
I just didn't have the heart to mention it.
The idea of an elderly horse contentedly wandering through a shady orchard is such a happy thought.
One evening, when I saw her at the store again, I mentioned that I would be going back to the Netherlands for a few weeks soon. She told me to make sure to visit the horse and feed it some pears.
I promised I would.
Didn't meet her again for several months.
Then one day in spring, when I got on the bus, she was in one of the seats near the back.
Turns out she had moved out of the area - her parents had finally bought a house, out in the avenues, so she seldom came to the neighborhood anymore. She would be graduating soon, but planned to keep living at home for a while. It was a nice house, and it had a yard.
Her dad had even promised to plant a pear tree for her. She was very much looking forward to that. Yes, she realized it might be a few years before it fruited, but it would be so lovely when it did.
And she would finally find out what pear blossoms smelled like!
I haven't seen her since then.
She still looked too small and slender to be an adult.
It's hard to imagine her all grown up and graduated.
She's almost certainly married by now, probably even has children.
I hope she's told them about the horse, and an orchard in autumn, and sweet ripe pears.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Showing posts with label Cantonese-American girls. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cantonese-American girls. Show all posts
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
CANTONESE GIRLS AND SEXUAL FANTASIES
Catchy title, no? I fully expect a mob of perverts to descend upon this blog.
If they're looking for tips, or juicy material for their own fetishes, they may be disappointed.
And perhaps "sexual fantasies" is a bit overblown. More like 'fond imaginings'.
About which I'm as close to an expert as a non-Cantonese non-female is ever likely to become.
Many Cantonese girls dream about someone rather like Lau Tak-wah (劉德華). Andy Lau (his English name) in his younger years was dashingly foxy, though he often spoiled the effect by being smirkingly appreciative of his own good looks. More so on stage than in his movies.
He's still a very handsome man, and while I am not enamoured of his music, I've always immensely enjoyed his acting. Obviously NOT in the same way that his screaming girlie groupies did, nor in the clenching thighs firmly together fashion of young ladies perspiring in the back of the cinema. He hails from Tai Po, a place in the northeastern part of the New Territories.
劉德華
Part of the appeal of Mr. Lau is the dangerous aura he radiates - the sense that he'll woo you, sweep you off your feet, passionately enjoy every inch of your innocent young body, and then dump you when the cops are hot on his tail for a jewelry heist.
Okay, that's not my fantasy, but it's the type of rosy peach-dream that many young girls engage in.
Personally, I've always thought that in his best roles he had the loveable quirkiness and emotive appeal of Kermit The Frog - the bemused scrunch to the face, and the same flippery gestures - but that, too, is a good thing.
Kermit has pizzazz.
That's one hella sexy frog.
For some reason the edge of danger is a constant in the erotic fantasies of women.
San Francisco Cantonese girls are not unusual in that regard; at one point the entire female student body of Lowell High School was obsessed with vampires - handsome, mysterious, elegant, and above all, threatening.
Vampires are quite romantic, unlike werewolves or zombies.
Anybody who imagines herself ravished by a zombie probably has issues.
Not sure about werewolves, though. I would've thought that the type had absolutely NO appeal, but I've seen enough young bi-racial couples to indicate that werewolves may also figure into the young Cantonese maiden's sensual gestalt.
Either that or she found someone as whitey-white as she could possibly get, perhaps to shock her mom.
Maybe it's his animal appearance - If you're going to cross boundaries, might as well go whole hog. It doesn't account for the tattoos, but it does explain the hairy arms and simian facial characteristics. A dull brute, stupid and bland, but with strength and aroma, like a sweaty beast.
Really should've fallen for the amphibian, girl.
Speaking of vampires, a woman with whom I used to be involved (Savage Kitten) always found Geraint Wyn Davies to be one hot hunk. Particularly in the series 'Forever Knight', in which he plays a vampire on the Toronto Police Force.
For years I would torment the poor girl whenever I whispered "Geraint Wyn Davies, Nick Knight, oooooh, Geraint........ Wyn........ DAVIES!". She'd squeal in agony, and nearly faint. It was very amusing.
In retrospect, maybe it wasn't agony. I'll have to think about it.
She's always had a thing for romantic vampires.
THE HOTTEST VAMPIRE EVER!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lQALLGsn-Fk
She also has a thing for Kermit The Frog.
Not sure if other sweet little Cantonese-American girls feel the same way.
If they do, they're probably hitting replay like topsy on that youtube, with moist and trembling fingers.
"Ooooh, so nice and green!"
Girls, I am lean and vulpine like Andy Lau, and charming like Kermit the Frog. Think about it.
Ribbit.
Some Cantonese Girls have fantasies that involve either Rhett Butler or Scarlett O'Hara. The other men in Gone With The Wind have no appeal, and seem rather drippy, but Rhett is manly and dashing.
What makes Rhett desirable is the combination of mystery, rakishness, and self-confidence.
He is dangerous because of these characteristics, and that risky quality makes him magnetic.
Even so headstrong and self-centered a woman as Scarlett feels drawn to him.
Plus he wears clothes well. That, too, is immensely attractive in a man.
Angularity, posture, a fine figure.
Very few girls are ever attracted to Winston Churchill or Alfred Hitchcock. But suave erect men, like the James Bond actors (provided that everyone who is NOT Sean Connery just shuts up - talking isn't what you want them for), or Humphrey Bogart, or even Paul Newman; theses are well nigh irresistible.
Meltingly so.
Vampires. Frogs. Dark and dangerous heroes.
They're everything girls dream about.
Real men.
========================================================================== NOTE: Young ladies who feel strongly attracted to the handsome frog are invited to contact me: LETTER BOX. We can spend a romantic evening together - just you, me, a bottle of champagne, and Kermit in a Muppet movie. Your choice. ==========================================================================
If they're looking for tips, or juicy material for their own fetishes, they may be disappointed.
And perhaps "sexual fantasies" is a bit overblown. More like 'fond imaginings'.
About which I'm as close to an expert as a non-Cantonese non-female is ever likely to become.
Many Cantonese girls dream about someone rather like Lau Tak-wah (劉德華). Andy Lau (his English name) in his younger years was dashingly foxy, though he often spoiled the effect by being smirkingly appreciative of his own good looks. More so on stage than in his movies.
He's still a very handsome man, and while I am not enamoured of his music, I've always immensely enjoyed his acting. Obviously NOT in the same way that his screaming girlie groupies did, nor in the clenching thighs firmly together fashion of young ladies perspiring in the back of the cinema. He hails from Tai Po, a place in the northeastern part of the New Territories.
劉德華
Part of the appeal of Mr. Lau is the dangerous aura he radiates - the sense that he'll woo you, sweep you off your feet, passionately enjoy every inch of your innocent young body, and then dump you when the cops are hot on his tail for a jewelry heist.
Okay, that's not my fantasy, but it's the type of rosy peach-dream that many young girls engage in.
Personally, I've always thought that in his best roles he had the loveable quirkiness and emotive appeal of Kermit The Frog - the bemused scrunch to the face, and the same flippery gestures - but that, too, is a good thing.
Kermit has pizzazz.
That's one hella sexy frog.
For some reason the edge of danger is a constant in the erotic fantasies of women.
San Francisco Cantonese girls are not unusual in that regard; at one point the entire female student body of Lowell High School was obsessed with vampires - handsome, mysterious, elegant, and above all, threatening.
Vampires are quite romantic, unlike werewolves or zombies.
Anybody who imagines herself ravished by a zombie probably has issues.
Not sure about werewolves, though. I would've thought that the type had absolutely NO appeal, but I've seen enough young bi-racial couples to indicate that werewolves may also figure into the young Cantonese maiden's sensual gestalt.
Either that or she found someone as whitey-white as she could possibly get, perhaps to shock her mom.
Maybe it's his animal appearance - If you're going to cross boundaries, might as well go whole hog. It doesn't account for the tattoos, but it does explain the hairy arms and simian facial characteristics. A dull brute, stupid and bland, but with strength and aroma, like a sweaty beast.
Really should've fallen for the amphibian, girl.
Speaking of vampires, a woman with whom I used to be involved (Savage Kitten) always found Geraint Wyn Davies to be one hot hunk. Particularly in the series 'Forever Knight', in which he plays a vampire on the Toronto Police Force.
For years I would torment the poor girl whenever I whispered "Geraint Wyn Davies, Nick Knight, oooooh, Geraint........ Wyn........ DAVIES!". She'd squeal in agony, and nearly faint. It was very amusing.
In retrospect, maybe it wasn't agony. I'll have to think about it.
She's always had a thing for romantic vampires.
THE HOTTEST VAMPIRE EVER!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lQALLGsn-Fk
She also has a thing for Kermit The Frog.
Not sure if other sweet little Cantonese-American girls feel the same way.
If they do, they're probably hitting replay like topsy on that youtube, with moist and trembling fingers.
"Ooooh, so nice and green!"
Girls, I am lean and vulpine like Andy Lau, and charming like Kermit the Frog. Think about it.
Ribbit.
Some Cantonese Girls have fantasies that involve either Rhett Butler or Scarlett O'Hara. The other men in Gone With The Wind have no appeal, and seem rather drippy, but Rhett is manly and dashing.
What makes Rhett desirable is the combination of mystery, rakishness, and self-confidence.
He is dangerous because of these characteristics, and that risky quality makes him magnetic.
Even so headstrong and self-centered a woman as Scarlett feels drawn to him.
Plus he wears clothes well. That, too, is immensely attractive in a man.
Angularity, posture, a fine figure.
Very few girls are ever attracted to Winston Churchill or Alfred Hitchcock. But suave erect men, like the James Bond actors (provided that everyone who is NOT Sean Connery just shuts up - talking isn't what you want them for), or Humphrey Bogart, or even Paul Newman; theses are well nigh irresistible.
Meltingly so.
Vampires. Frogs. Dark and dangerous heroes.
They're everything girls dream about.
Real men.
========================================================================== NOTE: Young ladies who feel strongly attracted to the handsome frog are invited to contact me: LETTER BOX. We can spend a romantic evening together - just you, me, a bottle of champagne, and Kermit in a Muppet movie. Your choice. ==========================================================================
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
CANTONESE GIRLS ARE BEAUTIFUL
On one of the forums that I occasionally read, one contributor opined that Cantonese girls look rather ape-like. A very strong opinion.
Needless to say I was intrigued.
Here in San Francisco there are a fair number of Cantonese girls.
I myself live with one, though we haven't been amorously involved in what seems like forever.
[Romance ended in 2010. We're still friends. She's a good person.]
Yes, I've seen Cantonese girls who reminded me of small monkeys.
Just like I've seen black women who resemble the mythical heffalump, and white women who looked like cavemen or trolls.
There are women of every ethnicity who recall the wild man of Borneo.
You know this is true - just think of your in-laws.
On the other hand, anyone who could seriously think my ex had anything in common with a simian would need their eyes examined.
Or poked out - both options are equally recommended.
Many Cantonese girls look absolutely yummy.
There are few Cantonese women who can be called really stunning, however.
The problem is that they look far too intelligent, or their faces betray too much interest or emotion. They're thinking about something, all the wheels are turning.
True classic beauty looks dumb as a brick.
A woman who is eyeing your fine burrito con mole poblano with an expression that says "you gonna eat ALL of that, you greedy bastard?" just doesn't have the requisite vacuity in her face.
Likewise, a Cantonese girl who has just told you "dew sei neige pok gai tau, chau haam ga tsan kam ge sei kwei chui yeh!!!" may look any number of things - pan faced uber-goober isn't it.
[No, I will neither translate, nor ideographically transcribe, that locution.]
The standard idea of beauty includes an uncomplicated expression, certain proportions, and certain hues.
Stupid, curvy, pale.
The hues are acceptable.
The proportions are often quite interesting.
And the expressions?
No Cantonese woman can pretend that her mind is blank. Their own faces betray that there is something going on upstairs, even if it's only "I want some of that lobster, even if I have to KILL the dumb white guy currently hogging the buffet!"
They just aren't very good at looking vacant. That, right there, takes away the classic appeal.
Most men want someone who has the pouty emptiness of Marilyn Monroe, or the steamy mutton-faced sexiness of Brigitte Bardot.
A frown that says that something good better go into the mouth or something blisteringly evil will soon come out frightens many males.
The other great failing of the young Cantonese female is that she just cannot look up adoringly at her hunk. Do you see those pupils, those narrowed eyes? Yes, she's looking up. But she's focused on that hair sticking out his nostril, and planning to yank it out when he falls asleep. She's just waiting.
Either that, or she's thinking "good lord, he looks like a dingo from this angle - is it even worth my while staying around for dinner?"
Cantonese feminine charm lies in looking homicidal, involved, angry, despairing, stubborn, greedy, amused, hungry, or wicked.
Perhaps even con brio spewing a train of invective that would make a dead man blanch.
These girls are the descendants of grave robbers, smugglers, pirates, and incendiarists. Their ancestors moved south into Lingnan to escape blandness.
[As well as to get away from taxes, the salt-gabelle, the draft, and snooty northerners.]
They just don't have it in them to look 'beautiful'.
Give them a good time (and something nice to eat), and they'll sparkle.
Bore them, and you'll see just how ugly a woman can get.
Unless she's happily speculating about trading you in for a whole roast pig, which is when she will look her dreamiest best.
[So what do those sweet seductive bedroom eyes mean? Either you've pleased her no end, and she thinks you're the bees' knees and the cat's miaow, OR she's happily calculating your net worth based on pounds of stupid male flesh and harvestable organs.
Finding out which it is, is up to you. Good luck.]
If they look ape-like, that may just be because they're thinking of jamming a banana where your sun don't shine.
A hard unripe banana.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Needless to say I was intrigued.
Here in San Francisco there are a fair number of Cantonese girls.
I myself live with one, though we haven't been amorously involved in what seems like forever.
[Romance ended in 2010. We're still friends. She's a good person.]
Yes, I've seen Cantonese girls who reminded me of small monkeys.
Just like I've seen black women who resemble the mythical heffalump, and white women who looked like cavemen or trolls.
There are women of every ethnicity who recall the wild man of Borneo.
You know this is true - just think of your in-laws.
On the other hand, anyone who could seriously think my ex had anything in common with a simian would need their eyes examined.
Or poked out - both options are equally recommended.
Many Cantonese girls look absolutely yummy.
There are few Cantonese women who can be called really stunning, however.
The problem is that they look far too intelligent, or their faces betray too much interest or emotion. They're thinking about something, all the wheels are turning.
True classic beauty looks dumb as a brick.
A woman who is eyeing your fine burrito con mole poblano with an expression that says "you gonna eat ALL of that, you greedy bastard?" just doesn't have the requisite vacuity in her face.
Likewise, a Cantonese girl who has just told you "dew sei neige pok gai tau, chau haam ga tsan kam ge sei kwei chui yeh!!!" may look any number of things - pan faced uber-goober isn't it.
[No, I will neither translate, nor ideographically transcribe, that locution.]
The standard idea of beauty includes an uncomplicated expression, certain proportions, and certain hues.
Stupid, curvy, pale.
The hues are acceptable.
The proportions are often quite interesting.
And the expressions?
No Cantonese woman can pretend that her mind is blank. Their own faces betray that there is something going on upstairs, even if it's only "I want some of that lobster, even if I have to KILL the dumb white guy currently hogging the buffet!"
They just aren't very good at looking vacant. That, right there, takes away the classic appeal.
Most men want someone who has the pouty emptiness of Marilyn Monroe, or the steamy mutton-faced sexiness of Brigitte Bardot.
A frown that says that something good better go into the mouth or something blisteringly evil will soon come out frightens many males.
The other great failing of the young Cantonese female is that she just cannot look up adoringly at her hunk. Do you see those pupils, those narrowed eyes? Yes, she's looking up. But she's focused on that hair sticking out his nostril, and planning to yank it out when he falls asleep. She's just waiting.
Either that, or she's thinking "good lord, he looks like a dingo from this angle - is it even worth my while staying around for dinner?"
Cantonese feminine charm lies in looking homicidal, involved, angry, despairing, stubborn, greedy, amused, hungry, or wicked.
Perhaps even con brio spewing a train of invective that would make a dead man blanch.
These girls are the descendants of grave robbers, smugglers, pirates, and incendiarists. Their ancestors moved south into Lingnan to escape blandness.
[As well as to get away from taxes, the salt-gabelle, the draft, and snooty northerners.]
They just don't have it in them to look 'beautiful'.
Give them a good time (and something nice to eat), and they'll sparkle.
Bore them, and you'll see just how ugly a woman can get.
Unless she's happily speculating about trading you in for a whole roast pig, which is when she will look her dreamiest best.
[So what do those sweet seductive bedroom eyes mean? Either you've pleased her no end, and she thinks you're the bees' knees and the cat's miaow, OR she's happily calculating your net worth based on pounds of stupid male flesh and harvestable organs.
Finding out which it is, is up to you. Good luck.]
If they look ape-like, that may just be because they're thinking of jamming a banana where your sun don't shine.
A hard unripe banana.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 23, 2011
TWILIGHT ON NOB HILL
She doesn't smoke, she doesn't drink. Yes, in her hometown dialect she swears like a dockworker - courtesy of her mother's rhetorical habitus - but she has never sworn at me.
In all ways except that she was seeing me, she was an exemplary woman.
And she still is. We broke up half a year ago. She's now seeing someone else, though she still shares the apartment.
Even when she told me it was over, she was as gentle as she could be.
I don't think she wanted to hurt me, but she never realized how deeply it did actually wound me. After twenty one years, she ended up believing that our relationship had run it's course.
It hadn't. Not for me. But she does not understand that.
In a way I can see her point of view - not that I agree with it, please understand - and I do not want to win her back. What's done is done. She needs to live her life her own way.
I am honoured that she still considers me her friend.
Possibly more than anyone else could be, she is my confidant, my fellow conspirator. She is someone whom I have trusted with things that no one else can know, and I am certain that those secrets are safe in her care.
Trust is not easily earned - and there are things she has told me I likewise will not divulge.
Whoever I have the good fortune to fall in love with in the future will also have her own secrets held safe, and will similarly be nicknamed rather than identified on this blog or elsewhere on the internet.
I excercise caution in my affairs (the horrible wordplay is accidental, NOT intended), and I am resolved that my attentions will not be aimed at someone lacking certain characteristics - characteristics which Savage Kitten in fact exemplifies.
Such people deserve privacy.
However, that rather leaves me hosed and S out of L in this town. Someone of moderate and reserved personal habits - who does not have tattoos, piercings, or a history of flamboyantly reprehensible behaviour - where does one find such a person?
Someone trustworthy and unflinching?
Someone who reads, thinks, responds thoughtfully, and tries to be ethical and honest - in San Francisco?
Decades ago it could have been easier. Behaviour was more controlled (or so it now seems), and even young people often had standards. Not standards that were exceptionally high for their era, but which are nevertheless rather rare in this day and age.
I also think that literacy was more valued then. My parents generation (or at least they and their associates) considered books to be worthwhile acquisitions, precious possessions.
Other than us 'eccentrics', does anyone STILL value texts?
When Savage Kitten graduated from college, with two degrees, summa cum laude, I was so proud of her. She had paid for her education herself, and had studied in the face of her parents' typically Toishanese insistence that academia (beyond something purely cosmetic, like 'secretarial skills') was wasted on a girl. Her brothers had been supported through college, but for several years she was actively discouraged from pursuing it much further.
Just graduate, girl, and then get married.
I was in the back row at her graduation, because her family was also in attendance. But at the ceremony for the dean's list, I was the only one she invited.
Even today, nearly two decades later, I am incredibly pleased that she asked me to be there.
I could not be more honoured.
I am still inordinately proud of her perseverance and her determination.
She is a woman of valour. Her new boyfriend is one lucky son-of-abitch.
I have been rather extraordinarily fortunate in my life. I know Savage Kitten.
I know several fine people in our little branch of the great conspiracy - rabbit mom and her husband and children, the doctor and his family, the Torah reader and his two sons.
Plus a book merchant and his educator parents, Rabbi P. and the ursine blogger, and several other people whom I shall not describe in any detail. Including quite a few folks who are fluent in Dutch, Yiddish, German, Russian, Lawyerese, Designer-gibberish and Engineering, plus a number of Cantonese, Hokkien, and Indonesian speakers.
All of these people are blessings - and I do not say that lightly. I'm rather picky, and I set the bar far far higher for my associates than I would ever do for myself.
[Yeah, quite unfair, I know. Though why on earth should I demand as much of myself as I do of others? These are the people with whom I really want to associate - a man is judged by his friends, and from the rabbit holders to the toireh leyner, it gives me great pride to know these people.]
But where and how shall I find a new helpmeet of whom I can be as proud?
How am I to find a thoughtful woman, who reads (habitually and with great enjoyment as a passionate personal enterprise), who does not think inordinately much of her sexual attributes, does not make a public spectacle of herself, or get tattoed like a hunk of meat?
Are there, really, any young ladies in this city in whom one can have such pride? Are there still women who value themselves too much to engage in conceited and self-indulgent misbehaviour?
Women with realistic self-respect?
Or am I just wasting my time even considering people who are decent, intelligent, and actually have standards?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In all ways except that she was seeing me, she was an exemplary woman.
And she still is. We broke up half a year ago. She's now seeing someone else, though she still shares the apartment.
Even when she told me it was over, she was as gentle as she could be.
I don't think she wanted to hurt me, but she never realized how deeply it did actually wound me. After twenty one years, she ended up believing that our relationship had run it's course.
It hadn't. Not for me. But she does not understand that.
In a way I can see her point of view - not that I agree with it, please understand - and I do not want to win her back. What's done is done. She needs to live her life her own way.
I am honoured that she still considers me her friend.
Possibly more than anyone else could be, she is my confidant, my fellow conspirator. She is someone whom I have trusted with things that no one else can know, and I am certain that those secrets are safe in her care.
Trust is not easily earned - and there are things she has told me I likewise will not divulge.
Whoever I have the good fortune to fall in love with in the future will also have her own secrets held safe, and will similarly be nicknamed rather than identified on this blog or elsewhere on the internet.
I excercise caution in my affairs (the horrible wordplay is accidental, NOT intended), and I am resolved that my attentions will not be aimed at someone lacking certain characteristics - characteristics which Savage Kitten in fact exemplifies.
Such people deserve privacy.
However, that rather leaves me hosed and S out of L in this town. Someone of moderate and reserved personal habits - who does not have tattoos, piercings, or a history of flamboyantly reprehensible behaviour - where does one find such a person?
Someone trustworthy and unflinching?
Someone who reads, thinks, responds thoughtfully, and tries to be ethical and honest - in San Francisco?
Decades ago it could have been easier. Behaviour was more controlled (or so it now seems), and even young people often had standards. Not standards that were exceptionally high for their era, but which are nevertheless rather rare in this day and age.
I also think that literacy was more valued then. My parents generation (or at least they and their associates) considered books to be worthwhile acquisitions, precious possessions.
Other than us 'eccentrics', does anyone STILL value texts?
When Savage Kitten graduated from college, with two degrees, summa cum laude, I was so proud of her. She had paid for her education herself, and had studied in the face of her parents' typically Toishanese insistence that academia (beyond something purely cosmetic, like 'secretarial skills') was wasted on a girl. Her brothers had been supported through college, but for several years she was actively discouraged from pursuing it much further.
Just graduate, girl, and then get married.
I was in the back row at her graduation, because her family was also in attendance. But at the ceremony for the dean's list, I was the only one she invited.
Even today, nearly two decades later, I am incredibly pleased that she asked me to be there.
I could not be more honoured.
I am still inordinately proud of her perseverance and her determination.
She is a woman of valour. Her new boyfriend is one lucky son-of-abitch.
I have been rather extraordinarily fortunate in my life. I know Savage Kitten.
I know several fine people in our little branch of the great conspiracy - rabbit mom and her husband and children, the doctor and his family, the Torah reader and his two sons.
Plus a book merchant and his educator parents, Rabbi P. and the ursine blogger, and several other people whom I shall not describe in any detail. Including quite a few folks who are fluent in Dutch, Yiddish, German, Russian, Lawyerese, Designer-gibberish and Engineering, plus a number of Cantonese, Hokkien, and Indonesian speakers.
All of these people are blessings - and I do not say that lightly. I'm rather picky, and I set the bar far far higher for my associates than I would ever do for myself.
[Yeah, quite unfair, I know. Though why on earth should I demand as much of myself as I do of others? These are the people with whom I really want to associate - a man is judged by his friends, and from the rabbit holders to the toireh leyner, it gives me great pride to know these people.]
But where and how shall I find a new helpmeet of whom I can be as proud?
How am I to find a thoughtful woman, who reads (habitually and with great enjoyment as a passionate personal enterprise), who does not think inordinately much of her sexual attributes, does not make a public spectacle of herself, or get tattoed like a hunk of meat?
Are there, really, any young ladies in this city in whom one can have such pride? Are there still women who value themselves too much to engage in conceited and self-indulgent misbehaviour?
Women with realistic self-respect?
Or am I just wasting my time even considering people who are decent, intelligent, and actually have standards?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?
My dear, I shall not even pretend to understand what goes on in your head.
After twenty one years, I thought I knew you. Yet I cannot fathom why you dropped me (after 21 years, gddmt it!), and then started seeing that fellow.
It just makes no sense. I was there with you, and for you, during more than two decades.
You decided it had run its course, nothing more could be said. So you didn't even discuss what was going on in your mind, but presented me with a conclusion.
How the hell am I supposed to react when it's over? When you have already made a decision, regarding both of us, and thrown 21 years out the door?
Yes, I know you still like me, and that after all is said and done we share too much to break off all contact.
But we could've gone from the romance straight to the friendship a helluva lot faster.
And don't you think it would have been fairer to have at least involved me in the decision making process? My life too, you know - you've chucked two decades of it down the drain.
I haven't. I wouldn't do anything different. Those were happy years, many people don't ever have that much. I know your parents did not have it, they had fifty years of marriage, and ended up with less than we did. Your father faithfully watched "divorce court" like it was a religious experience.
My grandfather eventually considered the woman he married his personal insane response to the Bolshevik revolution - the photo I have that shows him and several other American officers, rail thin, celebrating his wedding in the American Mission in Kermanshah, probably represents the happiest and most normal day of his marriage. Their Russian cavalry swords are brawnier than they, it must have been an interesting time.
My own parents were not the best of matches - I've often thought that two such intelligent and complex people would've been far better friends than they were a married couple.
In the years that they were together, how happy were they?
But you and I had twenty one years, and those were exceptionally good years. Why did you not say anything? It was only in your mind, in the last six months, that it changed. You know I'm a bit oblivious, just like I know that you are neurotically obsessive.
I am certain that we could nevertheless have talked it out, you did not need to worry it to pieces. It need not have ended.
But it did. You terminated it.
Stubborn woman.
Your explanation still does not make sense.
I cannot ask you what really went on in your head - it's likely that you don't even know at this point, and too many months have passed - like all of us, you've reformulated your memories, and the thing is done.
Now you're seeing that man in a wheelchair. He has not known you for a fraction of the time that I have. What on earth will he give you that will last? Personally I don't see it. It's not likely I ever could.
I'm not betting on more than a year, though.
At some point I will find someone who is far better able to communicate with me. Someone who likes me for all the reasons that I like myself, the things that I admire about other people. Someone who herself is infinitely likeable and loveable, flexible, perspicacious and intelligent, and who can gently overlook whatever roughness that, after twenty one years of tumbling, I might still have.
Compared to you, I am a relatively easy person - I am socially functional.
And now worn smoother than I ever was before.
You and I will still be friends, my dear, but she may be better able to relate to you than I at that point. She'll have fewer raw spots and hard edges than me. Less grit in the emotional loafers.
I was a smooth man untill you decided that it wasn't what you wanted.
Did you really have to wait 21 years for that?
Sweetheart, my life could've been quite different if you had lost interest far sooner.
You're still a wonderful person. And I do want you to remain part of my life. But the next person who captures my heart will have precedence, that's just the way it will have to be.
You will always have a voice. But she'll have a veto.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
After twenty one years, I thought I knew you. Yet I cannot fathom why you dropped me (after 21 years, gddmt it!), and then started seeing that fellow.
It just makes no sense. I was there with you, and for you, during more than two decades.
You decided it had run its course, nothing more could be said. So you didn't even discuss what was going on in your mind, but presented me with a conclusion.
How the hell am I supposed to react when it's over? When you have already made a decision, regarding both of us, and thrown 21 years out the door?
Yes, I know you still like me, and that after all is said and done we share too much to break off all contact.
But we could've gone from the romance straight to the friendship a helluva lot faster.
And don't you think it would have been fairer to have at least involved me in the decision making process? My life too, you know - you've chucked two decades of it down the drain.
I haven't. I wouldn't do anything different. Those were happy years, many people don't ever have that much. I know your parents did not have it, they had fifty years of marriage, and ended up with less than we did. Your father faithfully watched "divorce court" like it was a religious experience.
My grandfather eventually considered the woman he married his personal insane response to the Bolshevik revolution - the photo I have that shows him and several other American officers, rail thin, celebrating his wedding in the American Mission in Kermanshah, probably represents the happiest and most normal day of his marriage. Their Russian cavalry swords are brawnier than they, it must have been an interesting time.
My own parents were not the best of matches - I've often thought that two such intelligent and complex people would've been far better friends than they were a married couple.
In the years that they were together, how happy were they?
But you and I had twenty one years, and those were exceptionally good years. Why did you not say anything? It was only in your mind, in the last six months, that it changed. You know I'm a bit oblivious, just like I know that you are neurotically obsessive.
I am certain that we could nevertheless have talked it out, you did not need to worry it to pieces. It need not have ended.
But it did. You terminated it.
Stubborn woman.
Your explanation still does not make sense.
I cannot ask you what really went on in your head - it's likely that you don't even know at this point, and too many months have passed - like all of us, you've reformulated your memories, and the thing is done.
Now you're seeing that man in a wheelchair. He has not known you for a fraction of the time that I have. What on earth will he give you that will last? Personally I don't see it. It's not likely I ever could.
I'm not betting on more than a year, though.
At some point I will find someone who is far better able to communicate with me. Someone who likes me for all the reasons that I like myself, the things that I admire about other people. Someone who herself is infinitely likeable and loveable, flexible, perspicacious and intelligent, and who can gently overlook whatever roughness that, after twenty one years of tumbling, I might still have.
Compared to you, I am a relatively easy person - I am socially functional.
And now worn smoother than I ever was before.
You and I will still be friends, my dear, but she may be better able to relate to you than I at that point. She'll have fewer raw spots and hard edges than me. Less grit in the emotional loafers.
I was a smooth man untill you decided that it wasn't what you wanted.
Did you really have to wait 21 years for that?
Sweetheart, my life could've been quite different if you had lost interest far sooner.
You're still a wonderful person. And I do want you to remain part of my life. But the next person who captures my heart will have precedence, that's just the way it will have to be.
You will always have a voice. But she'll have a veto.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, December 30, 2010
MY CHEESE IS GONE!
A mind is a terrible thing. And often, it is your own worst enemy.
Fortunately the little bastard is easily distracted.........
For instance:
On the way out of the building for a smoke, I overheard two other smokers on their way in. One of them was saying "and then you do it with cream and butter and bacon".
Damn, girl, the only thing missing is cheese.
WHERE'S THE CHEESE?
Several years ago there was a Taiwanese soap opera which I thoroughly enjoyed. The story involved a handsome professional, his suicidal former wife, the beautiful new wife, a Shanghainese ex-mistress, his darling little daughter, and his daughter's amah, who only spoke Taiwanese Hokkien.
Except for whatever the amah said, the series was in Mandarin. Pretty decent Mandarin, too.
Even the Shanghainese bint spoke understandably (normally those people sound like exploding soda water siphons).
Every episode included at least one tantrum, several weepy moments, and scenes of utter heart-rending drama in which the little girl yanked the tears from the viewing-audience with brute force.
The amah was stellar too, especially when she wailed and hiccoughed, kvetching and shraiing in that language no one else in the series spoke but which all of them miraculously understood.
Come to think of it, all the females wept beautifully - rich, dramatic, sobbing from the gut, crying, lamenting and accusing at the top of their lungs. Misery, heart-ache, and spoiled pouty dejection on an epic scale.
It was utterly delightful. I've always appreciated over-acting.
Savage Kitten, who is my erstwhile significant other and still a darn good friend as well as my house mate, speaks English and Toishanese. Her Toishanese is worse than my Cantonese. She does not speak any Mandarin or Hokkien at all.
She can't stand pouting females, and she absolutely hates weepy bitches.
Hong Kong, mainland, or Taiwan television bores her. Unless they show lots of food.
Whenever we watched Chinese soap-operas, she would invent her own dialogue in different voices.
The one episode of this Taiwanese weep-and-scream fest that she saw, she decided that the cause of all the distress was that there was NO cheese - that lack explained everything.
IL N'Y A PAS DE FROMAGE!
In the first scene, the ex-wife tearfully bids farewell to her daughter, as shown in remembered flashback. Everyone cries buckets.
VOICE-ONE: Oh woe, my cheese is missing!!!
VOICE-TWO: Mom, how could you, that was the BEST Cheese EVER, we are undone!!! Waaaah!!!
VOICE-THREE: Oh stop wailing about the cheese, bitch, now you're making me cry.
VOICE-ONE: You're heartless, you lactose intolerant beast! It was Edam!
All three females start screaming hysterically, while remembering the cheese.
Shortly afterwards Savage Kitten went into the kitchen to fix herself a snack.
Several scenes later, the handsome professional is in the very modern kitchen of his luxuriously appointed house, explaining something to the amah that involves the rice cooker. The amah is stubborn and angry. The child, standing next to the amah, is pouting. Everyone is tense.
VOICE-ONE: You never should've put the cheese in here, moron, you've RUINED this expensive appliance!
VOICE-TWO: Stupid man, it was made in Japan! Remember what they did in World War Two? Those bandy-legged goblins, they DESERVE cheese up their cookers!
VOICE-THREE: Waaaah, I want some cheese, waaaah!
VOICE-ONE: Well you can't have any, you sickening little brat - miss Stupid here shoved it up some Japanese businessman's exhaust pipe! All of it! Pound pound pound!
VOICE TWO: Ementhaler! Gouda! Stilton!
VOICE THREE: Waaaah!
Both females start howling, the man looks fed-up.
During the commercials that followed, Savage Kitten went to the store to get some chips.
In the final scene, there's a view of the handsome professional's mansion during a typhoon, with rain slamming the building in nearly horizontal sheets, gusts whipping the trees. It is night. Cut to the living room, where the man, his daughter, the beautiful new wife, and the amah, are closely clustered with their arms around each other in the darkness, as the storm buffets the house.
The two women and the little girl are emotional.
VOICE ONE: Oh no, we're all going to die!
VOICE-TWO: It's your fault, bitch, I told you to cook dinner while we still had electricity! Now there's no rice!
VOICE-THREE: We couldn't have rice anyhow, she ruined the rice-cooker with that cheese!
VOICE-ONE: So why didn't you buy another one, idiot! And if you paid the electric bills once in a while they wouldn't cut us off!
VOICE-TWO: Yeah, but WHO insisted that I get more cheese instead, huh, who? Who?!?!?
VOICE-THREE: Oh shut up about the cheese already! That stuff gives me the runs!
VOICE-FOUR (the daughter): I remember the last time that happened! And we couldn't leave the house then either, it was HORRIBLE!
All three females start weeping copiously, one of them (the amah) flailing about uncontrollably.
VOICE-THREE: The pressure, the pressure, my intestine's gonna give way any moment now, save yourselves, aaaaaaack!VOICE-FOUR: It smells like cheese in here, we're gonna die! Waaaah!
During the ending credits, Savage Kitten happily speculated that all 'northerners' (meaning everyone except the Cantonese) were crazy, talked funny, and didn't know beans about good food. She was scarfing down an entire bag of Bacon Cheddar Fries while she spoke.
Savage Kitten has never had a problem with cheese. She is not lactose intolerant. Loves the stuff.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Fortunately the little bastard is easily distracted.........
For instance:
On the way out of the building for a smoke, I overheard two other smokers on their way in. One of them was saying "and then you do it with cream and butter and bacon".
Damn, girl, the only thing missing is cheese.
WHERE'S THE CHEESE?
Several years ago there was a Taiwanese soap opera which I thoroughly enjoyed. The story involved a handsome professional, his suicidal former wife, the beautiful new wife, a Shanghainese ex-mistress, his darling little daughter, and his daughter's amah, who only spoke Taiwanese Hokkien.
Except for whatever the amah said, the series was in Mandarin. Pretty decent Mandarin, too.
Even the Shanghainese bint spoke understandably (normally those people sound like exploding soda water siphons).
Every episode included at least one tantrum, several weepy moments, and scenes of utter heart-rending drama in which the little girl yanked the tears from the viewing-audience with brute force.
The amah was stellar too, especially when she wailed and hiccoughed, kvetching and shraiing in that language no one else in the series spoke but which all of them miraculously understood.
Come to think of it, all the females wept beautifully - rich, dramatic, sobbing from the gut, crying, lamenting and accusing at the top of their lungs. Misery, heart-ache, and spoiled pouty dejection on an epic scale.
It was utterly delightful. I've always appreciated over-acting.
Savage Kitten, who is my erstwhile significant other and still a darn good friend as well as my house mate, speaks English and Toishanese. Her Toishanese is worse than my Cantonese. She does not speak any Mandarin or Hokkien at all.
She can't stand pouting females, and she absolutely hates weepy bitches.
Hong Kong, mainland, or Taiwan television bores her. Unless they show lots of food.
Whenever we watched Chinese soap-operas, she would invent her own dialogue in different voices.
The one episode of this Taiwanese weep-and-scream fest that she saw, she decided that the cause of all the distress was that there was NO cheese - that lack explained everything.
IL N'Y A PAS DE FROMAGE!
In the first scene, the ex-wife tearfully bids farewell to her daughter, as shown in remembered flashback. Everyone cries buckets.
VOICE-ONE: Oh woe, my cheese is missing!!!
VOICE-TWO: Mom, how could you, that was the BEST Cheese EVER, we are undone!!! Waaaah!!!
VOICE-THREE: Oh stop wailing about the cheese, bitch, now you're making me cry.
VOICE-ONE: You're heartless, you lactose intolerant beast! It was Edam!
All three females start screaming hysterically, while remembering the cheese.
Shortly afterwards Savage Kitten went into the kitchen to fix herself a snack.
Several scenes later, the handsome professional is in the very modern kitchen of his luxuriously appointed house, explaining something to the amah that involves the rice cooker. The amah is stubborn and angry. The child, standing next to the amah, is pouting. Everyone is tense.
VOICE-ONE: You never should've put the cheese in here, moron, you've RUINED this expensive appliance!
VOICE-TWO: Stupid man, it was made in Japan! Remember what they did in World War Two? Those bandy-legged goblins, they DESERVE cheese up their cookers!
VOICE-THREE: Waaaah, I want some cheese, waaaah!
VOICE-ONE: Well you can't have any, you sickening little brat - miss Stupid here shoved it up some Japanese businessman's exhaust pipe! All of it! Pound pound pound!
VOICE TWO: Ementhaler! Gouda! Stilton!
VOICE THREE: Waaaah!
Both females start howling, the man looks fed-up.
During the commercials that followed, Savage Kitten went to the store to get some chips.
In the final scene, there's a view of the handsome professional's mansion during a typhoon, with rain slamming the building in nearly horizontal sheets, gusts whipping the trees. It is night. Cut to the living room, where the man, his daughter, the beautiful new wife, and the amah, are closely clustered with their arms around each other in the darkness, as the storm buffets the house.
The two women and the little girl are emotional.
VOICE ONE: Oh no, we're all going to die!
VOICE-TWO: It's your fault, bitch, I told you to cook dinner while we still had electricity! Now there's no rice!
VOICE-THREE: We couldn't have rice anyhow, she ruined the rice-cooker with that cheese!
VOICE-ONE: So why didn't you buy another one, idiot! And if you paid the electric bills once in a while they wouldn't cut us off!
VOICE-TWO: Yeah, but WHO insisted that I get more cheese instead, huh, who? Who?!?!?
VOICE-THREE: Oh shut up about the cheese already! That stuff gives me the runs!
VOICE-FOUR (the daughter): I remember the last time that happened! And we couldn't leave the house then either, it was HORRIBLE!
All three females start weeping copiously, one of them (the amah) flailing about uncontrollably.
VOICE-THREE: The pressure, the pressure, my intestine's gonna give way any moment now, save yourselves, aaaaaaack!VOICE-FOUR: It smells like cheese in here, we're gonna die! Waaaah!
During the ending credits, Savage Kitten happily speculated that all 'northerners' (meaning everyone except the Cantonese) were crazy, talked funny, and didn't know beans about good food. She was scarfing down an entire bag of Bacon Cheddar Fries while she spoke.
Savage Kitten has never had a problem with cheese. She is not lactose intolerant. Loves the stuff.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FRIENDS, JUST FRIENDS
Once, when we were going through a rough spot during the very early years, Savage Kitten said that if she had to choose, she would want intimacy instead of friendship.
I said that I would vastly prefer friendship. That even if we never slept together again the friendship was the most precious part of our relationship to me.
A while after that we moved in together. That was seventeen years ago.
This past summer we stopped being lovers.
We’ve stayed friends.
HAH! I win!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I said that I would vastly prefer friendship. That even if we never slept together again the friendship was the most precious part of our relationship to me.
A while after that we moved in together. That was seventeen years ago.
This past summer we stopped being lovers.
We’ve stayed friends.
HAH! I win!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
TEXTURE AND TENSILITY
The ex-girlfriend, who is still my roommate, has been in emotional crisis mode these past few days. It started after Thanksgiving (an evil holiday), though it had naught to do with the worship of the overweight burnt bird.
She's been a bit overwrought.
It's not anyone else's business, so I shan't tell you why.
What I will say is that I rather like it. It gives me a chance to nurture and be comforting.
She's really quite loveable during those vulnerable moments.
No, I'm not going to try to soften her up and get her back - it would not be the gentlemanly thing to do. Not while her defenses are down.
And whether it succeeded or (more likely) failed, it would create bad blood. She would not appreciate the breach of trust.
She's rather stubborn and strong-minded, and once she has made a decision she sticks with it.
Nor do I want to upset the current comfortable and convenient domestic applecart: a reliable roommate with whom I get along very well.
I like having a slim small-boned Cantonese woman floating around the apartment. Especially when she flits off to the shower from her bedroom.
She isn't aware of my glowing eyes staring from the shadows.
While I will bravely assert that this is just keen aesthetic appreciation on my part, you might as well know that I have a dirty old pervert skillset of monumental proportions (it's a gift).
Having a roommate (even if she is now an ex girlfriend) who is nice to look at adds joy to my life.
"Boruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melech ha olam, oseh ma’aseh bereishis."
Especially when she flits down the hall wearing only Hello Kitty panties.
I bought her those Hello Kitty panties last year. Had to look all over town for them. Fortunately Hello Kitty panties come in her size - and ONLY her size. She shops in the girls department, not the big white adult womens section. It is doubtful that Hello Kitty panties come in big white adult woman sizes.
Yes, half of San Francisco is no doubt achingly disappointed over that.
It's so very sad.
DARLING LITTLE BIKINI BRIEFS
Initially she wouldn't touch them - the Hello Kitty cuteness freaked her out. Surely those panties were something only a stalker or creep would gift?
No real woman would wear them, ever! Ick!
Turns out they're quite comfy. It's high quality cotton.
Yes, I compared textures and tensile qualities - for heavensakes don't ask how or why!
Just refer back to the previously mentioned 'dirty old pervert skillset of monumental proportions', and leave it at that.
They fit perfectly, by the way.
This year I have two serious gifting quandaries.
The first and most important one is that with her birthday coming up, I still don't know what to give her. She and I are no longer lovers, so giving panties of any kind is right out. It would be staggeringly indelicate.
The second quandary is much more of an intellectual problem.
Who am I going to give panties to this year?
Both of these problems are taking up a lot of my time.
Reader suggestions are always welcome.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
She's been a bit overwrought.
It's not anyone else's business, so I shan't tell you why.
What I will say is that I rather like it. It gives me a chance to nurture and be comforting.
She's really quite loveable during those vulnerable moments.
No, I'm not going to try to soften her up and get her back - it would not be the gentlemanly thing to do. Not while her defenses are down.
And whether it succeeded or (more likely) failed, it would create bad blood. She would not appreciate the breach of trust.
She's rather stubborn and strong-minded, and once she has made a decision she sticks with it.
Nor do I want to upset the current comfortable and convenient domestic applecart: a reliable roommate with whom I get along very well.
I like having a slim small-boned Cantonese woman floating around the apartment. Especially when she flits off to the shower from her bedroom.
She isn't aware of my glowing eyes staring from the shadows.
While I will bravely assert that this is just keen aesthetic appreciation on my part, you might as well know that I have a dirty old pervert skillset of monumental proportions (it's a gift).
Having a roommate (even if she is now an ex girlfriend) who is nice to look at adds joy to my life.
"Boruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melech ha olam, oseh ma’aseh bereishis."
Especially when she flits down the hall wearing only Hello Kitty panties.
I bought her those Hello Kitty panties last year. Had to look all over town for them. Fortunately Hello Kitty panties come in her size - and ONLY her size. She shops in the girls department, not the big white adult womens section. It is doubtful that Hello Kitty panties come in big white adult woman sizes.
Yes, half of San Francisco is no doubt achingly disappointed over that.
It's so very sad.
DARLING LITTLE BIKINI BRIEFS
Initially she wouldn't touch them - the Hello Kitty cuteness freaked her out. Surely those panties were something only a stalker or creep would gift?
No real woman would wear them, ever! Ick!
Turns out they're quite comfy. It's high quality cotton.
Yes, I compared textures and tensile qualities - for heavensakes don't ask how or why!
Just refer back to the previously mentioned 'dirty old pervert skillset of monumental proportions', and leave it at that.
They fit perfectly, by the way.
This year I have two serious gifting quandaries.
The first and most important one is that with her birthday coming up, I still don't know what to give her. She and I are no longer lovers, so giving panties of any kind is right out. It would be staggeringly indelicate.
The second quandary is much more of an intellectual problem.
Who am I going to give panties to this year?
Both of these problems are taking up a lot of my time.
Reader suggestions are always welcome.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, November 26, 2010
POST TURKEY DAY PEEVISHNESS
Folks have been asking me whether I had a good holiday.
It’s an odd question.
I haven’t had a real Thanksgiving since 1983, the year before my finances went into a eight year long tailspin. That was the last time I had a turkey dinner with all the trimmings among friends. By the summer of 1984 things had spiraled out of control, and I started losing my Berkeley associates.
[You may have noticed before that I am not fond of Berkeley? Now you know ONE of the reasons.]
For several years afterwards, Thanksgiving was the usual solitary sandwich and a shot of Bourbon customary among free-floating bachelors.
Even after Savage Kitten moved in with me in 1994 (we had been secret lovers for four years by that time), a real Thanksgiving was not in the cards. Because she never told her parents or siblings about our relationship, she would obediently truck on over to the family home by herself on Thursday to hear how her unmarried brothers should produce grandkids BY NEXT YEAR, and how as a worthless girl-child she ought to get hitched to a real-estate owning financially stable Toishanese professional as soon as possible.
Which, when she came home later that evening, I would hear also.
Had I been the wished-for real-estate owning financially stable Toishanese professional, it is still not likely that I would have ever been invited to these family events.
If Savage Kitten had married me she would have been someone else’s family, and her nasty old harridan mom would never have cottoned to me anyhow, as the frightful old fruitbat wouldn’t have had the chance to personally vet of me, OR inform me in great and blistering detail what a horrid awful disobedient worthless girl her daughter was. Though undoubtedly far too good for me, even if everyone was sort-of grateful that I was charitably marrying the nasty little hussy.
And "goodbye to both of you".
[If the venomous old sow could have known that her daughter decided this past summer that the relationship with the White Devil no longer worked for her and dumped me, it would've given the sadistic old prune great pleasure. That's just one of the many reasons why I am overjoyed that the vicious old crocodile has suffered several strokes and is now permanently non compos mentis.]
As you may have gathered from Wednesday's little screed, I am not particularly fond of Turkey. Possibly that's sour-grapes.
But Roast Duck is much nicer, and in years past, when Savage Kitten and I were still a couple, I would cook up a duck with all the trimmings for our own Thanksgiving celebration on Black Friday.
For obvious reasons that will not happen this afternoon.
Yesterday, before heading over to the family manse, Savage Kitten left dinner for me in the fridge.
It was very kind of her to do so - I wasn't counting on eating bugger-all on Thanksgiving, seeing as the day usually gives me a black mood and a lack of appetite.
Then she went off to "enjoy" several hours with her kin, and some of the worst Chinese food she has ever had. As well as the "stimulating" conversation of middle-aged engineers, plus sisters-in-law whom she thinks of as not being fully developed women - perfect Cantonese wives, in other words.
So no, I did not have a 'good thanksgiving'.
But I had a far better thanksgiving than my ex.
Other than watching a drunken fist-fight between a bar-owner and a patron, it was quiet and uneventful.
I'll have to take her out to dinner sometime soon. She deserves a good meal in unobjectionable company.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It’s an odd question.
I haven’t had a real Thanksgiving since 1983, the year before my finances went into a eight year long tailspin. That was the last time I had a turkey dinner with all the trimmings among friends. By the summer of 1984 things had spiraled out of control, and I started losing my Berkeley associates.
[You may have noticed before that I am not fond of Berkeley? Now you know ONE of the reasons.]
For several years afterwards, Thanksgiving was the usual solitary sandwich and a shot of Bourbon customary among free-floating bachelors.
Even after Savage Kitten moved in with me in 1994 (we had been secret lovers for four years by that time), a real Thanksgiving was not in the cards. Because she never told her parents or siblings about our relationship, she would obediently truck on over to the family home by herself on Thursday to hear how her unmarried brothers should produce grandkids BY NEXT YEAR, and how as a worthless girl-child she ought to get hitched to a real-estate owning financially stable Toishanese professional as soon as possible.
Which, when she came home later that evening, I would hear also.
Had I been the wished-for real-estate owning financially stable Toishanese professional, it is still not likely that I would have ever been invited to these family events.
If Savage Kitten had married me she would have been someone else’s family, and her nasty old harridan mom would never have cottoned to me anyhow, as the frightful old fruitbat wouldn’t have had the chance to personally vet of me, OR inform me in great and blistering detail what a horrid awful disobedient worthless girl her daughter was. Though undoubtedly far too good for me, even if everyone was sort-of grateful that I was charitably marrying the nasty little hussy.
And "goodbye to both of you".
[If the venomous old sow could have known that her daughter decided this past summer that the relationship with the White Devil no longer worked for her and dumped me, it would've given the sadistic old prune great pleasure. That's just one of the many reasons why I am overjoyed that the vicious old crocodile has suffered several strokes and is now permanently non compos mentis.]
As you may have gathered from Wednesday's little screed, I am not particularly fond of Turkey. Possibly that's sour-grapes.
But Roast Duck is much nicer, and in years past, when Savage Kitten and I were still a couple, I would cook up a duck with all the trimmings for our own Thanksgiving celebration on Black Friday.
For obvious reasons that will not happen this afternoon.
Yesterday, before heading over to the family manse, Savage Kitten left dinner for me in the fridge.
It was very kind of her to do so - I wasn't counting on eating bugger-all on Thanksgiving, seeing as the day usually gives me a black mood and a lack of appetite.
Then she went off to "enjoy" several hours with her kin, and some of the worst Chinese food she has ever had. As well as the "stimulating" conversation of middle-aged engineers, plus sisters-in-law whom she thinks of as not being fully developed women - perfect Cantonese wives, in other words.
So no, I did not have a 'good thanksgiving'.
But I had a far better thanksgiving than my ex.
Other than watching a drunken fist-fight between a bar-owner and a patron, it was quiet and uneventful.
I'll have to take her out to dinner sometime soon. She deserves a good meal in unobjectionable company.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, October 22, 2010
CANTONESE GIRLS
Over on Facebook, sparkling little minx and fellow-blogger Steffy Chou asked about herring, and wrote: "Feel free to wax lyrical about herring on your blog. And stop speculating about Cantonese girls. We're normal, you aren't."
Earlier she had said: "For the life of me I cannot figure out whether his primary fetish is Cantonese girls or pipe-smoking."
She kindly provided a link to a previous post in which I mentioned search criteria by which readers found this place. Hence the linking of Cantonese girls and herring.
Well now. Two things:
1. You'll find everything I have to say about herring here and here
[FAT GREEN VIRGINS: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2006/06/fat-green-virgins.html
FAT LITTLE VIRGINS: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2010/08/fat-little-virgins.html
Both essays have the words 'fat' and 'virgins' in the title. This confuses the occasional internet-wandering pervert. They would be better off with herring anyway. They just don't know it yet.]
2. I do like speculating about Cantonese girls. Boy howdy.
Actually, I like speculating about girls period. They are a fascinating subject. But I wouldn't describe 'Cantonese girls' as a fetish. Earlier on my blog I had mentioned that I like women who are shorter than me, and I may have also mentioned round heads and dark hair.
Having lived most of my childhood and adolescence in the Netherlands, you will probably understand that blondes who are taller than me are not exactly rain in my world. Nor, given my ambivalence about the Dutch, particularly an objective.
Most of the girls I ever had a crush on were indeed significantly shorter than myself - I don't like staring up at chins - though some of them were indeed blondes.
In particular, from my high school years I remember Bertje Klerk and Uki Schneider as stunning and loveable. Very nice girls, pale soft butter-blondes.
[Intelligent, too. Which may explain why I remember them. Stupid people are not memorable.]
However, Cantonese girls are quite delightful.
Whoever came up with the term 'Inscrutable Oriental' had never met the Cantonese. The term 'inscrutable' just does NOT apply. How can you possibly describe as 'inscrutable' an ethnic group which lives operatically at full volume, has a vocabulary that blisters paint, and expresses itself best through either insurrection or cooking?
There's an adventurousness and obstinacy to the Cantonese that is both endearing and unusual.
That isn't particularly surprising, given their history: Guangdong was Sinified by smugglers, pirates, incendiarists, criminals, dissidents, and tax-dodgers, as well as people who just wanted to get the hell away. The area south of the passes was long regarded as the wild frontier, where civilized people would suffer untold miseries surrounded by the wild Yuet, Man, Mang, Mieu, Yao and Fan tribes.
Nice polite Northern Chinese had no desire to go there. Nope. Not just Chinese enough. Too hot. Weird food. And they talk funny.
[Guangdong (廣東):'Broad East'; Canton province, the eastern part of the area south of the passes (嶺南 Ling Nan - another name for Kwantung). Yuet (越, 粵): the first character means 'frontier', and nowadays is applied to Vietnam (越南 South of the Frontiers). The second character is cognate and homophonous, originally a graphic representation of something creepy-crawly. It is the one-character referent for Canton Province and Cantonese things.
Man (蠻), Mang (芒), Mieu (苗), Yao (猺) and Fan (番): names of various tribes. The character for Man (蠻) shows a twisty critter underneath a cocoon, indicating that they weren't considered human, but rather repulsive, almost reptilian. Mang and Mieu both show the grass radical, as if the tribes in question were wild growths. Yao has the wild beast radical next to a phonetic element, and Fan has always meant barbarian.
White people are often refered to as Lofan' (佬番).]
BALLS!
The average Cantonese person does not whine about having been caught breaking the law - instead, they'll simply resolve to be a far better criminal next time.
And, if you're Cantonese, there's ALWAYS a next time.
The Cantonese combine chutzpah, cojones, and a brashly positive outlook.
粵女 YUET NUI
[Girl from Viet, as in the line 誰憐越女顏如玉 , 貧賤江頭自浣紗 ('shui lien Yuet-nui ngaan yu yuk, pan daam gong tou ji wun saa?'): "who notices the girl from Viet with a face like white jade, humbly washing silk alone down at the river bank?" Final line from a poem (洛陽女兒行) by Wang Wei (王維), T'ang Dynasty period.]
So in some sense, then, I do indeed have a fetish for Cantonese-American girls.
Feisty, at times foul-mouthed, and seriously into food.
Things like that I can definitely deal with.
I am not particularly intrigued by Japanese women, Filippinas, or other Asian-American types.
Northern Chinese can be very attractive - but they just aren't very interesting.
Taiwanese tend to whine in baby-like little-girl voices.... uuurghhh!
Shan't say anything about Shanghainese. Or Szechuanese. Or Fujianese. Nope, not my type. Dull.
And while I like the cuisine of nearly every place in South-East Asia, I am not interested in the women from those climes. Yes, many of them can be beautiful. But they have as little appeal as stuck-up European women, Irish-Americans, and chunky San Francisco Cholitas.
Or girls with tattoos.
Anger and indignation I can deal with. That, at least, demands to be treated as an equal.
Whining, pouting, and an attitude of entitlement are immediately repulsive.
背脊向天，都可以食
BUI-JIK HEUNG TIEN, DOU HO-YI SIK
[Anything with its back to the sky can be eaten!]
A lack of culinary curiosity also disenchants. One must be broad-minded!
Food is the great passion, finding new edible things and figuring out how best to prepare them is inexhaustibly intriguing.
The Cantonese approach to food is extremely appealing.
Almost a way of life.
So yes, Cantonese-American women excite me. They're like Belgians. Except smaller, angrier, and more opinionated. Zesty.
..............
I just need to find one who likes the smell of pipe-tobacco.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Earlier she had said: "For the life of me I cannot figure out whether his primary fetish is Cantonese girls or pipe-smoking."
She kindly provided a link to a previous post in which I mentioned search criteria by which readers found this place. Hence the linking of Cantonese girls and herring.
Well now. Two things:
1. You'll find everything I have to say about herring here and here
[FAT GREEN VIRGINS: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2006/06/fat-green-virgins.html
FAT LITTLE VIRGINS: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2010/08/fat-little-virgins.html
Both essays have the words 'fat' and 'virgins' in the title. This confuses the occasional internet-wandering pervert. They would be better off with herring anyway. They just don't know it yet.]
2. I do like speculating about Cantonese girls. Boy howdy.
Actually, I like speculating about girls period. They are a fascinating subject. But I wouldn't describe 'Cantonese girls' as a fetish. Earlier on my blog I had mentioned that I like women who are shorter than me, and I may have also mentioned round heads and dark hair.
Having lived most of my childhood and adolescence in the Netherlands, you will probably understand that blondes who are taller than me are not exactly rain in my world. Nor, given my ambivalence about the Dutch, particularly an objective.
Most of the girls I ever had a crush on were indeed significantly shorter than myself - I don't like staring up at chins - though some of them were indeed blondes.
In particular, from my high school years I remember Bertje Klerk and Uki Schneider as stunning and loveable. Very nice girls, pale soft butter-blondes.
[Intelligent, too. Which may explain why I remember them. Stupid people are not memorable.]
However, Cantonese girls are quite delightful.
Whoever came up with the term 'Inscrutable Oriental' had never met the Cantonese. The term 'inscrutable' just does NOT apply. How can you possibly describe as 'inscrutable' an ethnic group which lives operatically at full volume, has a vocabulary that blisters paint, and expresses itself best through either insurrection or cooking?
There's an adventurousness and obstinacy to the Cantonese that is both endearing and unusual.
That isn't particularly surprising, given their history: Guangdong was Sinified by smugglers, pirates, incendiarists, criminals, dissidents, and tax-dodgers, as well as people who just wanted to get the hell away. The area south of the passes was long regarded as the wild frontier, where civilized people would suffer untold miseries surrounded by the wild Yuet, Man, Mang, Mieu, Yao and Fan tribes.
Nice polite Northern Chinese had no desire to go there. Nope. Not just Chinese enough. Too hot. Weird food. And they talk funny.
[Guangdong (廣東):'Broad East'; Canton province, the eastern part of the area south of the passes (嶺南 Ling Nan - another name for Kwantung). Yuet (越, 粵): the first character means 'frontier', and nowadays is applied to Vietnam (越南 South of the Frontiers). The second character is cognate and homophonous, originally a graphic representation of something creepy-crawly. It is the one-character referent for Canton Province and Cantonese things.
Man (蠻), Mang (芒), Mieu (苗), Yao (猺) and Fan (番): names of various tribes. The character for Man (蠻) shows a twisty critter underneath a cocoon, indicating that they weren't considered human, but rather repulsive, almost reptilian. Mang and Mieu both show the grass radical, as if the tribes in question were wild growths. Yao has the wild beast radical next to a phonetic element, and Fan has always meant barbarian.
White people are often refered to as Lofan' (佬番).]
BALLS!
The average Cantonese person does not whine about having been caught breaking the law - instead, they'll simply resolve to be a far better criminal next time.
And, if you're Cantonese, there's ALWAYS a next time.
The Cantonese combine chutzpah, cojones, and a brashly positive outlook.
粵女 YUET NUI
[Girl from Viet, as in the line 誰憐越女顏如玉 , 貧賤江頭自浣紗 ('shui lien Yuet-nui ngaan yu yuk, pan daam gong tou ji wun saa?'): "who notices the girl from Viet with a face like white jade, humbly washing silk alone down at the river bank?" Final line from a poem (洛陽女兒行) by Wang Wei (王維), T'ang Dynasty period.]
So in some sense, then, I do indeed have a fetish for Cantonese-American girls.
Feisty, at times foul-mouthed, and seriously into food.
Things like that I can definitely deal with.
I am not particularly intrigued by Japanese women, Filippinas, or other Asian-American types.
Northern Chinese can be very attractive - but they just aren't very interesting.
Taiwanese tend to whine in baby-like little-girl voices.... uuurghhh!
Shan't say anything about Shanghainese. Or Szechuanese. Or Fujianese. Nope, not my type. Dull.
And while I like the cuisine of nearly every place in South-East Asia, I am not interested in the women from those climes. Yes, many of them can be beautiful. But they have as little appeal as stuck-up European women, Irish-Americans, and chunky San Francisco Cholitas.
Or girls with tattoos.
Anger and indignation I can deal with. That, at least, demands to be treated as an equal.
Whining, pouting, and an attitude of entitlement are immediately repulsive.
背脊向天，都可以食
BUI-JIK HEUNG TIEN, DOU HO-YI SIK
[Anything with its back to the sky can be eaten!]
A lack of culinary curiosity also disenchants. One must be broad-minded!
Food is the great passion, finding new edible things and figuring out how best to prepare them is inexhaustibly intriguing.
The Cantonese approach to food is extremely appealing.
Almost a way of life.
So yes, Cantonese-American women excite me. They're like Belgians. Except smaller, angrier, and more opinionated. Zesty.
..............
I just need to find one who likes the smell of pipe-tobacco.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
CLEAN WHOLESOME HABITS ONLY!
As an ‘approchement’ to the anti-tobacco fiends fanatics who insisted that firmly closed tins of pipe tobacco in my area offended their delicate sensibilities, I have taken much home, and put the rest away. My desk is at present free of tobacco. Now, can I demand that they stop drenching themselves with cheap-ass perfume?
I think I can.
But it would probably be more politic not to.
Among the tobaccos which have disappeared from sight, due to coworker fascism, are several tins of Samuel Gawith – products of a very fine and ancient company, which has brought far more joy to humanity than any number of wheat-germ snarfing health Nazis.
But this of course brings up a question: What kind of pipe tobacco person are you?
I have prepared a little list. Please choose for yourself which product best describes you.
I am keen to know you better.
TOBACCO PERSONALITIES
Samuel Gawith 1792 Flake
A dark pressed steamed Virginia flake aromatized with Tonquin oil. Strong and robust, must be smoked really slowly. [CLICK]
You are a sleek young miss with a very bright smile, round-faced but with sparkling eyes. Your panties (‘bikini briefs’) are probably electric pink. Like many Chinese girls, you like lobster.
Samuel Gawith Balkan Flake
Dark and fragrant, rich with Latakia. This is a luxurious product, which renders down to a fine white ash. [CLICK]
If you smoke this, you probably like flawless English pipes with two-tone staining, along with silken jammies, lace panties, and ruffles in surprising places. Your spectacles help you look more sweet and innocent than you actually are, but evenso you don’t want to upset your parents. They just don’t know about the pipe-tobacco you've got hidden in the giant plush Hello Kitty on your bed.
Samuel Gawith Commonwealth Mixture
Half aged Virginia, half Latakia. A smoky straightforward product. Full-bodied, for the tweed and leather type. Perfect for foggy evenings. [CLICK]
You have thick shoulder-length hair and a high forehead. You read mystery novels, although occasionally you can be found laughing yourself sick over Barbara Cartland romances. You speak Mandarin better than Cantonese, which displeases your aunties no end. Bad girl!
Samuel Gawith Full Virginia Flake
Brown pressed flue-cured tobacco, medium strength. One of the best flakes on the market right now, along with G. L. Pease’s Union Square. A must for all Virginia smokers. [CLICK]
A quiet little miss, demurely dressed. You favour dark skirts and pale blouses, and you look absolutely fabulous(!) wearing pearls - sometimes you wear nothing else. Home cooking is what you prefer – shrimp paste stuffed beancurd, steamed pork with salt fish, cold poached chicken with shredded ginger.
Samuel Gawith Grousemoor
Blonde ribbons made fragrant with an old-fashioned essence first used in snuff. An excellent product, for what it is, though it will not appeal to very many pipe aficionados. This is like smoking history. [CLICK]
You may come to a bad end, OR you’ll publish your first novel before you’re twenty. Either way, there is a depth to you quite out of keeping with your parents and classmates conceptions. You probably also read licentious literature in several languages. You own only one bra – you have given up on the idea of ever growing into it. That’s where you keep the tobacco, the sand-blast Sasieni, and the Comoy.
Samuel Gawith Skiff Mixture
Mild to medium English-Balkan. More Virginias than one would expect. Slightly heretical. The type of mixture that both young persons as well as old grumps can enjoy. [CLICK]
You are most comfortable in blue-jeans and sweaters. Sometimes athletic. You’ve probably got your hair in a ponytail. When you help out at your parents drygoods store you are friendly with all customers, including the old aunties who only speak hometown dialect, and the elderly uncles who call you ‘leng nui’. BBs.
Samuel Gawith Squadron Leader
The classic English-Balkan with a definite Turkish presence. Redolant and stinky, a profoundly satisfying smoke. Guaranteed to offend pretentious dipwads. Damn good stuff. [CLICK]
One of the most sparkling little ladies around, equally comfortable in jeans or skirts. Saucy, but very intelligent and sensible. You have kissable looking lips and you blush easily. Unlike the rest of your family you also like hotsauce with your food, not just that dab of oyster sauce or hoisin. You even like northern dishes!
Samuel Gawith Saint James Flake
Pressed Virginias and Perique. Strong but smooth, pleasantly sweet. This is the classic vaper. Sophisticated without being froofy or ‘la’. A remarkable product, a real smoke. [CLICK]
Not a day goes by that you don’t have a strong cappuccino or espresso. Yes, you are full of beans. If you were old enough to drink, you would favour brandy. You visit your auntie in C'town everyday – she finds your pipe smoking enchanting, because it reminds her of when she still lived in Hong Kong, sneaking out to party at night. Her oldest friend says the fragrance reminds her of a Shanghainese gentleman caller long ago.
Samuel Gawith Westmoreland Mixture
Virginias, Cavendish, and maybe 30% Latakia. Unusual by American standards, but never the less not uncommon across the pond. A pleasant smoke that some others will sneer at, even though there is nothing wrong with the product – it just doesn’t suit them. A few lucky smokers will find this delightful and exactly what the doctor ordered. It is. [CLICK]
Slim and lithe, with top grades in school. Lowell High is proud of you, and Berkeley can’t wait. But you’ll probably end up at Harvard. Underneath your clothes you wear undies trimmed with lace, because it feels good. Your long long hair is always tied in a ponytail. When tourists ask you anything you often pretend not to speak English. Just because.
See? Scope for everyone. And if you run out of tobacco, I can always give you some. Just look for me when you’re lurking near the tobacco store or in an alleyway up from Stockton Street, and you and I can enjoy a pleasant pipe together.
This is NOT an obscene proposition.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I think I can.
But it would probably be more politic not to.
Among the tobaccos which have disappeared from sight, due to coworker fascism, are several tins of Samuel Gawith – products of a very fine and ancient company, which has brought far more joy to humanity than any number of wheat-germ snarfing health Nazis.
But this of course brings up a question: What kind of pipe tobacco person are you?
I have prepared a little list. Please choose for yourself which product best describes you.
I am keen to know you better.
TOBACCO PERSONALITIES
Samuel Gawith 1792 Flake
A dark pressed steamed Virginia flake aromatized with Tonquin oil. Strong and robust, must be smoked really slowly. [CLICK]
You are a sleek young miss with a very bright smile, round-faced but with sparkling eyes. Your panties (‘bikini briefs’) are probably electric pink. Like many Chinese girls, you like lobster.
Samuel Gawith Balkan Flake
Dark and fragrant, rich with Latakia. This is a luxurious product, which renders down to a fine white ash. [CLICK]
If you smoke this, you probably like flawless English pipes with two-tone staining, along with silken jammies, lace panties, and ruffles in surprising places. Your spectacles help you look more sweet and innocent than you actually are, but evenso you don’t want to upset your parents. They just don’t know about the pipe-tobacco you've got hidden in the giant plush Hello Kitty on your bed.
Samuel Gawith Commonwealth Mixture
Half aged Virginia, half Latakia. A smoky straightforward product. Full-bodied, for the tweed and leather type. Perfect for foggy evenings. [CLICK]
You have thick shoulder-length hair and a high forehead. You read mystery novels, although occasionally you can be found laughing yourself sick over Barbara Cartland romances. You speak Mandarin better than Cantonese, which displeases your aunties no end. Bad girl!
Samuel Gawith Full Virginia Flake
Brown pressed flue-cured tobacco, medium strength. One of the best flakes on the market right now, along with G. L. Pease’s Union Square. A must for all Virginia smokers. [CLICK]
A quiet little miss, demurely dressed. You favour dark skirts and pale blouses, and you look absolutely fabulous(!) wearing pearls - sometimes you wear nothing else. Home cooking is what you prefer – shrimp paste stuffed beancurd, steamed pork with salt fish, cold poached chicken with shredded ginger.
Samuel Gawith Grousemoor
Blonde ribbons made fragrant with an old-fashioned essence first used in snuff. An excellent product, for what it is, though it will not appeal to very many pipe aficionados. This is like smoking history. [CLICK]
You may come to a bad end, OR you’ll publish your first novel before you’re twenty. Either way, there is a depth to you quite out of keeping with your parents and classmates conceptions. You probably also read licentious literature in several languages. You own only one bra – you have given up on the idea of ever growing into it. That’s where you keep the tobacco, the sand-blast Sasieni, and the Comoy.
Samuel Gawith Skiff Mixture
Mild to medium English-Balkan. More Virginias than one would expect. Slightly heretical. The type of mixture that both young persons as well as old grumps can enjoy. [CLICK]
You are most comfortable in blue-jeans and sweaters. Sometimes athletic. You’ve probably got your hair in a ponytail. When you help out at your parents drygoods store you are friendly with all customers, including the old aunties who only speak hometown dialect, and the elderly uncles who call you ‘leng nui’. BBs.
Samuel Gawith Squadron Leader
The classic English-Balkan with a definite Turkish presence. Redolant and stinky, a profoundly satisfying smoke. Guaranteed to offend pretentious dipwads. Damn good stuff. [CLICK]
One of the most sparkling little ladies around, equally comfortable in jeans or skirts. Saucy, but very intelligent and sensible. You have kissable looking lips and you blush easily. Unlike the rest of your family you also like hotsauce with your food, not just that dab of oyster sauce or hoisin. You even like northern dishes!
Samuel Gawith Saint James Flake
Pressed Virginias and Perique. Strong but smooth, pleasantly sweet. This is the classic vaper. Sophisticated without being froofy or ‘la’. A remarkable product, a real smoke. [CLICK]
Not a day goes by that you don’t have a strong cappuccino or espresso. Yes, you are full of beans. If you were old enough to drink, you would favour brandy. You visit your auntie in C'town everyday – she finds your pipe smoking enchanting, because it reminds her of when she still lived in Hong Kong, sneaking out to party at night. Her oldest friend says the fragrance reminds her of a Shanghainese gentleman caller long ago.
Samuel Gawith Westmoreland Mixture
Virginias, Cavendish, and maybe 30% Latakia. Unusual by American standards, but never the less not uncommon across the pond. A pleasant smoke that some others will sneer at, even though there is nothing wrong with the product – it just doesn’t suit them. A few lucky smokers will find this delightful and exactly what the doctor ordered. It is. [CLICK]
Slim and lithe, with top grades in school. Lowell High is proud of you, and Berkeley can’t wait. But you’ll probably end up at Harvard. Underneath your clothes you wear undies trimmed with lace, because it feels good. Your long long hair is always tied in a ponytail. When tourists ask you anything you often pretend not to speak English. Just because.
See? Scope for everyone. And if you run out of tobacco, I can always give you some. Just look for me when you’re lurking near the tobacco store or in an alleyway up from Stockton Street, and you and I can enjoy a pleasant pipe together.
This is NOT an obscene proposition.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
SWEET TEEN SNAKE
This morning, as I was getting dressed, a small Cantonese woman patted my rump on her way to the bathroom.
When I yelped in protest, she sneered that someday I would remember it fondly.
"Hah! When I’m gone, you’ll miss my patting your butt. No one else would do it -- “Aiyah, don’t wanna touch those flabby ancient spongies!” "
And with that, the bathroom door closed.
She’s probably at least partially right. At fifty years of age, I am not exactly in the running for Don Juan, as Savage Kitten realizes. But then I never was.
More likely somebody’s crazy old male relative. Something avuncular.
Which brings me to a conversation on facebook, reproduced below.
It is between a dignified gentleman, and a smart-aleck young lady.
[Names have been changed to protect the innocent.]
Middle-aged Coot: I wish to formally affirm that I am NOT, repeat, NOT, trying to get into her panties. Although I am sure they are quite fine, as such things go.
Middle-aged Coot: They're probably too tight anyhow.
Middle-aged Coot: I merely wish to persuade her to take up smoking. That is the furthest I wish to go.
Middle-aged Coot: Young ladies with fine briars - it's a lovely combination.
Sweetyoungthing: Yes. Far too tight.
Sweetyoungthing: Not until I go to college.
Sweetyoungthing: Probably like swimsuit blondes and Ferraris.
Rabbitmom: SYT, ignore the creepy old men. Leave them to the creepy old women.
Sweetyoungthing: How can I ignore the creepy old men? They're all around us!
Sweetyoungthing: Besides, he's too much into tobacco and whiskey to do anything. It saps the male vitality.
Sweetyoungthing: The words "dried-up old Dutchman" come to mind. Nabokovian, yes, but hardly Humbert Humbert.
Middle-aged Coot: Young lady, I'll have you know I am still very moist! At least fifty-five to fifty-seven percent by bodyweight water! That is sufficient!
-------------------------------------------------------
My sympathies, of course, are with Middle-aged Coot. How could it be otherwise? He and I probably have much in common, and he is clearly the aggrieved party.
I've been there, I know how that feels.
Whereas his attacker, miss Sweetyoungthing, obviously, is a snarky fourteen year old who lacks a proper attitude towards her elders.
In actual fact, none of us wish to get into her panties. We are cognizant of the law. And that society disapproves of such things. If we were even ever so inclined.
Which we aren't.
We are the pure of heart. Think of us each as 'Tobacco Uncle'.
Instead, we fervently and passionately wish to introduce her to pressed blonde Virginia flakes (demure and maidenly), or light Balkan blends (zesty and full of life), English mixtures (perky, audacious, even quite full of figure), and, should she prove receptive, the full Balkan blend in all its glory (seductive, mysterious, and tantalizing).
We might even expose her to a dark stoved flake (earthy, but with an alluring sweetness), Perique concoctions (oooh, so naughty!), and if there is absolutely NO other choice, mild aromatics (out dancing with the boys, but still home by ten).
Trust me, my dear, these things are far far better than chocolate. You will soon be convinced.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
When I yelped in protest, she sneered that someday I would remember it fondly.
"Hah! When I’m gone, you’ll miss my patting your butt. No one else would do it -- “Aiyah, don’t wanna touch those flabby ancient spongies!” "
And with that, the bathroom door closed.
She’s probably at least partially right. At fifty years of age, I am not exactly in the running for Don Juan, as Savage Kitten realizes. But then I never was.
More likely somebody’s crazy old male relative. Something avuncular.
Which brings me to a conversation on facebook, reproduced below.
It is between a dignified gentleman, and a smart-aleck young lady.
[Names have been changed to protect the innocent.]
Middle-aged Coot: I wish to formally affirm that I am NOT, repeat, NOT, trying to get into her panties. Although I am sure they are quite fine, as such things go.
Middle-aged Coot: They're probably too tight anyhow.
Middle-aged Coot: I merely wish to persuade her to take up smoking. That is the furthest I wish to go.
Middle-aged Coot: Young ladies with fine briars - it's a lovely combination.
Sweetyoungthing: Yes. Far too tight.
Sweetyoungthing: Not until I go to college.
Sweetyoungthing: Probably like swimsuit blondes and Ferraris.
Rabbitmom: SYT, ignore the creepy old men. Leave them to the creepy old women.
Sweetyoungthing: How can I ignore the creepy old men? They're all around us!
Sweetyoungthing: Besides, he's too much into tobacco and whiskey to do anything. It saps the male vitality.
Sweetyoungthing: The words "dried-up old Dutchman" come to mind. Nabokovian, yes, but hardly Humbert Humbert.
Middle-aged Coot: Young lady, I'll have you know I am still very moist! At least fifty-five to fifty-seven percent by bodyweight water! That is sufficient!
-------------------------------------------------------
My sympathies, of course, are with Middle-aged Coot. How could it be otherwise? He and I probably have much in common, and he is clearly the aggrieved party.
I've been there, I know how that feels.
Whereas his attacker, miss Sweetyoungthing, obviously, is a snarky fourteen year old who lacks a proper attitude towards her elders.
In actual fact, none of us wish to get into her panties. We are cognizant of the law. And that society disapproves of such things. If we were even ever so inclined.
Which we aren't.
We are the pure of heart. Think of us each as 'Tobacco Uncle'.
Instead, we fervently and passionately wish to introduce her to pressed blonde Virginia flakes (demure and maidenly), or light Balkan blends (zesty and full of life), English mixtures (perky, audacious, even quite full of figure), and, should she prove receptive, the full Balkan blend in all its glory (seductive, mysterious, and tantalizing).
We might even expose her to a dark stoved flake (earthy, but with an alluring sweetness), Perique concoctions (oooh, so naughty!), and if there is absolutely NO other choice, mild aromatics (out dancing with the boys, but still home by ten).
Trust me, my dear, these things are far far better than chocolate. You will soon be convinced.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, April 12, 2010
FLIRTATIOUS TEENAGE PIT-VIPER
I am outraged! Outraged, I tell you. I have been mercilessly fisked by a small and feisty female, who has taken my fondness for a pipe-tobacco (Balkan Sobranie) which is no longer available to task, nay, even sent it up the flagpole and invited the world to throw raspberries at it.
[My fondness, that is. Not the pipe tobacco (Balkan Sobranie) itself. About which she has little to say.]
Fellow-blogger Infectious Asian wrote: "I also clicked on a link named "Tobacco List", and that was a frightfully stupid thing to do - forty pages or so of stuff about pipe tobacco - a lot of which is, obviously, about Balkan Sobranie and mr. Atboth's deep enduring love affair with his stinky mistress.
He loves to roll in it, to touch it, to fondle it, rub it all over his pasty middle aged torso, and breathe deeply and passionately of its heady perfume. Balkan Sobranie is better than ten women!
He remembers each and every lust embrace of Balkan Sobranie, each tar-stained kiss, each sooty frolic, and each sultry shred of stimulus. Balkan Sobranie!
That's pipe tobacco we're talking about, he isn't talking about ME, thank god even though I'm jealous, or even any other young ladies. Just pipe tobacco! Pervert!"
[SOURCE: http://infectiousasian.blogspot.com/2010/04/balkan-sobranie-till-youre-sick-of-it.html ]
Stinky mistress? Tar-stained kisses?
Forsooth! 'Tis slander!
That statement about touching, fondling, and rubbing it all over my pasty middle aged torso is a calumny of monumental proportion. If I had any Balkan Sobranie lying around I would stick it in my pipe, nothing else. Touching, fondling, and rubbing are perhaps things that should happen to YOU, you very naughty teenage person, but NOT to tobacco.
You have no cause for jealousy.
I also object to be being referred to as "an elderly Dutchman, no longer hormonally gifted," and "possibly dried up".
I'll have you know that I am still full of piss and vinegar.
Given the general tenor of her post, I suspect that the rambunctious fourteen year-old Cantonese-American blogger was both bored and seeking to stir something up.
[But she did give me some gratuitous linkage, including one to this post: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2008/08/balkan-sobranie-postscript.html
Linkage is always a good thing.]
POISONOUS PEN
There have been other times when Infectious Asian has shown her teeth.
In this post she un-gently ripped Katherine Fuchs (National Organizer US Campaign to End the Israeli Occupation) for several things, here she slashes at Lily Haskell of the Arab Resource Organizing Center, and in this post she rakes the Berkeley Daily Planet (the Bay Area's own anti-Semitic news rag) and its self-righteous publisher (Becky O' Malley) over the coals.
All in all, I probably got off lightly. Compared to what she wrote about Katherine Fuchs, Lily Haskell, and Becky O'Malley, it was an affectionate ribbing, rather than a rabid savaging. She has a talent for bile quite unusual in one so young.
I may have to suggest some other targets to her - Kate Raphael, Alice Walker, and Barbara Lubin haven't been mentioned much at all lately. Perhaps she should direct her bitchy attentions thither.
[My fondness, that is. Not the pipe tobacco (Balkan Sobranie) itself. About which she has little to say.]
Fellow-blogger Infectious Asian wrote: "I also clicked on a link named "Tobacco List", and that was a frightfully stupid thing to do - forty pages or so of stuff about pipe tobacco - a lot of which is, obviously, about Balkan Sobranie and mr. Atboth's deep enduring love affair with his stinky mistress.
He loves to roll in it, to touch it, to fondle it, rub it all over his pasty middle aged torso, and breathe deeply and passionately of its heady perfume. Balkan Sobranie is better than ten women!
He remembers each and every lust embrace of Balkan Sobranie, each tar-stained kiss, each sooty frolic, and each sultry shred of stimulus. Balkan Sobranie!
That's pipe tobacco we're talking about, he isn't talking about ME, thank god even though I'm jealous, or even any other young ladies. Just pipe tobacco! Pervert!"
[SOURCE: http://infectiousasian.blogspot.com/2010/04/balkan-sobranie-till-youre-sick-of-it.html ]
Stinky mistress? Tar-stained kisses?
Forsooth! 'Tis slander!
That statement about touching, fondling, and rubbing it all over my pasty middle aged torso is a calumny of monumental proportion. If I had any Balkan Sobranie lying around I would stick it in my pipe, nothing else. Touching, fondling, and rubbing are perhaps things that should happen to YOU, you very naughty teenage person, but NOT to tobacco.
You have no cause for jealousy.
I also object to be being referred to as "an elderly Dutchman, no longer hormonally gifted," and "possibly dried up".
I'll have you know that I am still full of piss and vinegar.
Given the general tenor of her post, I suspect that the rambunctious fourteen year-old Cantonese-American blogger was both bored and seeking to stir something up.
[But she did give me some gratuitous linkage, including one to this post: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2008/08/balkan-sobranie-postscript.html
Linkage is always a good thing.]
POISONOUS PEN
There have been other times when Infectious Asian has shown her teeth.
In this post she un-gently ripped Katherine Fuchs (National Organizer US Campaign to End the Israeli Occupation) for several things, here she slashes at Lily Haskell of the Arab Resource Organizing Center, and in this post she rakes the Berkeley Daily Planet (the Bay Area's own anti-Semitic news rag) and its self-righteous publisher (Becky O' Malley) over the coals.
All in all, I probably got off lightly. Compared to what she wrote about Katherine Fuchs, Lily Haskell, and Becky O'Malley, it was an affectionate ribbing, rather than a rabid savaging. She has a talent for bile quite unusual in one so young.
I may have to suggest some other targets to her - Kate Raphael, Alice Walker, and Barbara Lubin haven't been mentioned much at all lately. Perhaps she should direct her bitchy attentions thither.
Monday, November 09, 2009
HOT ASIAN BABES AND FOOD!
I may have mentioned this before, but Asian women and food are a wonderful combination. Truly.
Not that I'm suggesting that you go out of your way to mix them, or even put them in the same container.
Last Friday Savage Kitten and I went to dinner at Kim Thang. We usually go there several times a year.
[Kim Thanh Vietnamese Chinese Restaurant: Kam Seng Tsan-teng (Cantonese pronunciation), 金城餐廳 located at 607 Geary Street, at Jones, three blocks West of Union Square.]
My heavens, that woman loves to eat. There's nothing quite like watching a petite Cantonese-American woman tuck into chow. It is a sight to behold.
Except, of course, that eating with her can sometimes be stressful. Especially when she's on a seafood kick.
That is when she will over-order in one category, and seemingly forget that there are also many other things to eat.
I like seafood too, but not quite to that degree. She, being as I mentioned, Cantonese American, can devour half the ocean at one gulp. Swallow the Leviathan, provided it is supremely fresh, and properly prepared.
[I'm guessing leviathan steamed (蒸), with some shredded ginger and a drizzle of dark sesame oil. Salted black beans (dowsee 豆豉) also, if it is a leviathan of several summers.]
She ordered two plates of oysters - one battered and deep-fried (jar ho 炸蠔), one steamed with green chilies, cilantro, scallion, ginger (tsing ho 蒸蠔).
Oysters (ho 蠔) are very good for small women, menstruating women, and women who have given blood recently or will be giving blood soon. Very healthy food.
Oysters are high in iron, yet low in cholesterol and fats. Small women, menstruating women, and women who have given blood recently or will be giving blood soon all need that extra iron.
She is most of those things, I am not a single one of them.
TWO BIG PLATES OF OYSTERS!
I was, naturally, a bit wankel all weekend because of it. Crotchety and goutish on Saturday, which necessitated a visit to an Indian restaurant to recover..... except, of course, that Indian restaurants make everything with ghee.
Did I already mention gout?
Oysters are also good for the sex drive. So I am not, in principle, opposed to two plates of oysters. Common sense will occasionally take a back seat, despite a propensity towards gout.
But that brings up another matter, namely a time several years ago when we were also at Kim Thang.
DREAMY JAPANESE BOMB SHELL
While I cannot remember what we ordered, Savage Kitten remembers it in detail. And she also remembers the young Japanese girl one table over who only ordered the steamed oysters, nothing else.
After the waiter put the large platter with the big, big steamed oysters down in front of her, the Japanese girl languorously picked up her chopsticks, and paused to lovingly stroke the mollusks with her eyes, drinking in the beauty of the pearlescent shell-lining, the glistening custard-like lumps of bivalve, jade green shreds of cilantro and scallion, emerald chili pepper...... her eyes narrowed as she dreamily prepared for that first bite, lifting a quivery morsel to her moistened, gently parting lips.......
Savage Kitten says it was the sexiest thing she has ever seen.
But she probably means the food, not the girl.
I, unfortunately, cannot remember either, as I was stuffing my face at the time. I would have liked to remember both, because Asian women and food are a wonderful combination. But the cooking at Kim Thang is such that it easily distracts me, and when you are already dining with one fabulous babe, it isn't good manners to oogle someone else.
=====================================
NOTE: One of my other favourite Vietnamese Restaurants is My Canh on Broadway, between Grant and Stockton, across the street from what used to be the Hotel Colon (now called the Sam Wong).
[My Canh Vietnamese Cuisine: Mei Cheng Yuet-Nam Tsan Gwun (Cantonese pronunciation) 美景越南餐館 626 Broadway.]
The food is decent though not spectacular, and late at night it is even exciting.
But the best part is the maitresse d'hotel - a woman universally known as 'Crazy Lady', from her devil-may-care attitude towards seating the teenage VietWah gangsters who eat there at three o'clock in the morning with their molls.
Seeing a four and a half foot tall woman cursing at a bunch of strapping young hoodlums, half of whom have warrants out for violent crime, is very entertaining. Especially when they quiveringly obey, and keep nice and quiet while waiting for her to assign them a table - never mind the loss of face in front of a full house, just worry that she might not let you eat!
They also know that Asian women and food are a wonderful combination.
Not that I'm suggesting that you go out of your way to mix them, or even put them in the same container.
Last Friday Savage Kitten and I went to dinner at Kim Thang. We usually go there several times a year.
[Kim Thanh Vietnamese Chinese Restaurant: Kam Seng Tsan-teng (Cantonese pronunciation), 金城餐廳 located at 607 Geary Street, at Jones, three blocks West of Union Square.]
My heavens, that woman loves to eat. There's nothing quite like watching a petite Cantonese-American woman tuck into chow. It is a sight to behold.
Except, of course, that eating with her can sometimes be stressful. Especially when she's on a seafood kick.
That is when she will over-order in one category, and seemingly forget that there are also many other things to eat.
I like seafood too, but not quite to that degree. She, being as I mentioned, Cantonese American, can devour half the ocean at one gulp. Swallow the Leviathan, provided it is supremely fresh, and properly prepared.
[I'm guessing leviathan steamed (蒸), with some shredded ginger and a drizzle of dark sesame oil. Salted black beans (dowsee 豆豉) also, if it is a leviathan of several summers.]
She ordered two plates of oysters - one battered and deep-fried (jar ho 炸蠔), one steamed with green chilies, cilantro, scallion, ginger (tsing ho 蒸蠔).
Oysters (ho 蠔) are very good for small women, menstruating women, and women who have given blood recently or will be giving blood soon. Very healthy food.
Oysters are high in iron, yet low in cholesterol and fats. Small women, menstruating women, and women who have given blood recently or will be giving blood soon all need that extra iron.
She is most of those things, I am not a single one of them.
TWO BIG PLATES OF OYSTERS!
I was, naturally, a bit wankel all weekend because of it. Crotchety and goutish on Saturday, which necessitated a visit to an Indian restaurant to recover..... except, of course, that Indian restaurants make everything with ghee.
Did I already mention gout?
Oysters are also good for the sex drive. So I am not, in principle, opposed to two plates of oysters. Common sense will occasionally take a back seat, despite a propensity towards gout.
But that brings up another matter, namely a time several years ago when we were also at Kim Thang.
DREAMY JAPANESE BOMB SHELL
While I cannot remember what we ordered, Savage Kitten remembers it in detail. And she also remembers the young Japanese girl one table over who only ordered the steamed oysters, nothing else.
After the waiter put the large platter with the big, big steamed oysters down in front of her, the Japanese girl languorously picked up her chopsticks, and paused to lovingly stroke the mollusks with her eyes, drinking in the beauty of the pearlescent shell-lining, the glistening custard-like lumps of bivalve, jade green shreds of cilantro and scallion, emerald chili pepper...... her eyes narrowed as she dreamily prepared for that first bite, lifting a quivery morsel to her moistened, gently parting lips.......
Savage Kitten says it was the sexiest thing she has ever seen.
But she probably means the food, not the girl.
I, unfortunately, cannot remember either, as I was stuffing my face at the time. I would have liked to remember both, because Asian women and food are a wonderful combination. But the cooking at Kim Thang is such that it easily distracts me, and when you are already dining with one fabulous babe, it isn't good manners to oogle someone else.
=====================================
NOTE: One of my other favourite Vietnamese Restaurants is My Canh on Broadway, between Grant and Stockton, across the street from what used to be the Hotel Colon (now called the Sam Wong).
[My Canh Vietnamese Cuisine: Mei Cheng Yuet-Nam Tsan Gwun (Cantonese pronunciation) 美景越南餐館 626 Broadway.]
The food is decent though not spectacular, and late at night it is even exciting.
But the best part is the maitresse d'hotel - a woman universally known as 'Crazy Lady', from her devil-may-care attitude towards seating the teenage VietWah gangsters who eat there at three o'clock in the morning with their molls.
Seeing a four and a half foot tall woman cursing at a bunch of strapping young hoodlums, half of whom have warrants out for violent crime, is very entertaining. Especially when they quiveringly obey, and keep nice and quiet while waiting for her to assign them a table - never mind the loss of face in front of a full house, just worry that she might not let you eat!
They also know that Asian women and food are a wonderful combination.
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GRITS AND TOFU
Like most Americans, I have a list of people who should be peacefully retired from public service and thereafter kept away from their desks,...
