It is cold, so cold..... The chill brings out strange behaviour in people. Not me, of course, as I am refreshingly normal.
It brings out strange behaviour in my significant other, Savage Kitten. Maybe because she is Cantonese-American.
We Dutch-Americans have NO screws loose, but Chinese-Americans..........
Due to the economy, she is no longer working full-time. And in consequence can stay in bed on a day like today. When I disappeared into the bathroom this morning, she had grabbed all the bedclothes and wrapped them tightly around herself. Even her nose was covered, just her eyes were visible. She held on to the one-legged monkey and the sock-sheep for comfort. So cold! So cold!
One thing I've noticed is that she feels the cold more acutely than I do. If she needs five blankets and a down comforter, I am perfectly happy with just one layer of sheeting and my feet exposed to the elements. She'll huddle up close to me, to soak up warmth, front to back..... then sneakily press her icy hands upon my glutei maximi.
At which point I may yelp.
Are other Cantonese-American girls like that?
I need to find out.
Anyhow. When I returned from my shower, she had just one word:
FUZZY!
Her eyes followed me around the room as I put on my clothes and prepared for work. There seemed a hunger in her glance, a deep yearning. On my way out, I found out what it was. Warm body! I represent something to suck heat out of.
SPOON TOOKUS!
That was what she yelled as I turned to leave. Spoon tookus! When I asked what she meant, she said that the words sounded appetizing. Comforting even, and so very very very wholesome.
Spoon tookus.
That, plus 'fuzzy', paints a picture ........ which we need not describe.
I am certain that she will spend most of the day curled up in bed with the small furry creatures. When I get home she will put aside the trashy book about the royal family, and reach for spoon tookus. Nice, warm, fuzzy spoon tookus. Because of the cold. Everyone needs such a thing, when it is chilly outside. Only then.
I feel SO objectified! Sniff!
Actually, I'm pretty darn comfortable with the idea. No problem at all.
I am the possessor of the spoon tookus. Which is good. Spoon tookus appeals to at least one charming Cantonese-American damsel, and maybe more. That is potent juju.
Spoon tookus. Spoon tookus. Spoon tookus.
Spoon tookus!
Showing posts with label ClayStreet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ClayStreet. Show all posts
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
WHY WOMEN SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO WATCH MINOR SURGERY
The elevator stopped and the lights flickered. After a brief pause, the lights came back on and a female voice came over the intercom, explaining in comforting tones "do not be alarmed, we are experiencing a power interruption".
The elevator then continued down.
And at that moment, it struck me. That statement, though voiced by a motherly woman, was written by a man. A real woman would have said "stop panicking (or crying, wailing, freaking out), we have just experienced a power interruption".
It involves an entirely different sense of tense.
To the man who wrote the text, it all overlapped. A woman could have understood that the recorded message would only be heard after the power interruption was over.
Afterwards. Not during.
Men are all about Venn diagrams, women are about loose ends. The male perspective is that this and that are on the some plane or in some significant way comparable, the woman knows that there is likely a sequential progression involved. Maybe that explanation is not entirely sound, but it goes a long way towards clarifying why men and women have such hugely different approaches to social talk.
Comparison versus narrative conclusion.
We may seem to speak the same language, but we really don't.
This illuminates Savage Kitten's strange ideas about conversation.
Last night we were lying on the bed in states of undress - no, none of your business, we are both elderly virgins, I am a priest, and we were practicing brahmacharya (ask e-kvetcher if you don't know what that means) - and she started talking.
It was, in a way, strangely romantic.
LOOSE END NO. I
First she started picking my brains about msexcel. Apparently I am an expert, a veritable Rick James of excel. Both of us use that popular spreadsheet program at work, and she had been discoursing about her job earlier in the evening. You may take it from me that msexcel is NOT proper pillow-talk, had nothing at all to do with the golden glow of her skin in the reflected light, and at that time seemed more than a little non-sequitorial to what had gone before. But she was tying up a conversational loose end.
So I elaborated about msexcel for a good ten minutes, explaining how certain things that she asked about could be accomplished.
As soon as I started about programming issues, she cut me off - no loose end there.
LOOSE END NO. II
Then, because my hives were acting up (skin allergy to certain types of tree pollens or air-born exudates), I sat up and started applying soothing ointment. Whereupon she remarked that the black spot on my back had grown bigger, my heavens, the lump itself was larger too! The size of a dollar! And that when I finally have Doctor 趙 in Chinatown lance the darned thing, she wants to be there! She is quite fascinated by it! And yes, she will bring her very own splatter guard, but she wants to see! Oh please!
Please please please!
No, sweetheart, I am NOT explaining to the nurse that this little Cantonese female is here with the big white toad as an observer. Please imagine that conversation: "Hi, I need Doctor 趙 to kill my evil twin Skippy, who is growing out of my back, and Savage Kitten here simply wants to watch, being possessed of avid curiosity, emmeser sadisten-freude, and the spirit of scientific inquiry...."
Nope. Ain't gonna happen. Ever.
The loose end in question is that she has long been convinced that if I allow her to apply gentle (meaning: extremely rough and painful) pressure, something interesting will happen.
She swears it will alleviate, but I know otherwise.
[My evil twin Skippy is the mother of all sebaceous cysts, and lives near the ridgeline of my upper back. He erupted once before, subcutaneously, and it hurt like hell because the surrounding tissues objected to this invasion of their domain by what was in their eyes an obnoxious stranger. I had him lanced back in 2004. The cute little nurse attending that operation in a support function was so startled that she dropped a tray of instruments. You can probably figure out for yourself what role a splatter guard plays in this scheme of things. And thank me for sharing.]
A PIT, AND SOME MAIZE
Somehow we got onto the subject of circumlocutory terms for body parts, and I wondered aloud how a certain orifice shared by both genders got the nickname 'cornhole' - I'm fairly certain I've heard it called that. She asserted that she had NEVER heard of it by that name. Where on earth? What the...? What DO you men talk about? "Hi, dude, how's the wife and kids and the cornhole?" "Nice weather we're having, how does it affect your cornhole?" "Here's the keys to the car, I hope your cornhole likes it?"
The more she speculated, the clearer it became that she has no clue what men say to each other.
Men and women just aren't on the same page.
After all, I never talk about my evil twin skippy. Or the wonderful features of msexcel, which is truly the spreadsheet program to end all spreadsheet programs, indeed, a veritable miracle of spreadsheet software.
Or even, chasvesholom, cornholes.
For comparison, here are some representative snippets of recent male conversations:
1. "Whut?"
2. "Dude!"
3. "Wow, man, boots!"
4. "It's stuck."
5. "Huh?!?"
I think you'll agree that these reflect an entirely different intellectual world, no?
The elevator then continued down.
And at that moment, it struck me. That statement, though voiced by a motherly woman, was written by a man. A real woman would have said "stop panicking (or crying, wailing, freaking out), we have just experienced a power interruption".
It involves an entirely different sense of tense.
To the man who wrote the text, it all overlapped. A woman could have understood that the recorded message would only be heard after the power interruption was over.
Afterwards. Not during.
Men are all about Venn diagrams, women are about loose ends. The male perspective is that this and that are on the some plane or in some significant way comparable, the woman knows that there is likely a sequential progression involved. Maybe that explanation is not entirely sound, but it goes a long way towards clarifying why men and women have such hugely different approaches to social talk.
Comparison versus narrative conclusion.
We may seem to speak the same language, but we really don't.
This illuminates Savage Kitten's strange ideas about conversation.
Last night we were lying on the bed in states of undress - no, none of your business, we are both elderly virgins, I am a priest, and we were practicing brahmacharya (ask e-kvetcher if you don't know what that means) - and she started talking.
It was, in a way, strangely romantic.
LOOSE END NO. I
First she started picking my brains about msexcel. Apparently I am an expert, a veritable Rick James of excel. Both of us use that popular spreadsheet program at work, and she had been discoursing about her job earlier in the evening. You may take it from me that msexcel is NOT proper pillow-talk, had nothing at all to do with the golden glow of her skin in the reflected light, and at that time seemed more than a little non-sequitorial to what had gone before. But she was tying up a conversational loose end.
So I elaborated about msexcel for a good ten minutes, explaining how certain things that she asked about could be accomplished.
As soon as I started about programming issues, she cut me off - no loose end there.
LOOSE END NO. II
Then, because my hives were acting up (skin allergy to certain types of tree pollens or air-born exudates), I sat up and started applying soothing ointment. Whereupon she remarked that the black spot on my back had grown bigger, my heavens, the lump itself was larger too! The size of a dollar! And that when I finally have Doctor 趙 in Chinatown lance the darned thing, she wants to be there! She is quite fascinated by it! And yes, she will bring her very own splatter guard, but she wants to see! Oh please!
Please please please!
No, sweetheart, I am NOT explaining to the nurse that this little Cantonese female is here with the big white toad as an observer. Please imagine that conversation: "Hi, I need Doctor 趙 to kill my evil twin Skippy, who is growing out of my back, and Savage Kitten here simply wants to watch, being possessed of avid curiosity, emmeser sadisten-freude, and the spirit of scientific inquiry...."
Nope. Ain't gonna happen. Ever.
The loose end in question is that she has long been convinced that if I allow her to apply gentle (meaning: extremely rough and painful) pressure, something interesting will happen.
She swears it will alleviate, but I know otherwise.
[My evil twin Skippy is the mother of all sebaceous cysts, and lives near the ridgeline of my upper back. He erupted once before, subcutaneously, and it hurt like hell because the surrounding tissues objected to this invasion of their domain by what was in their eyes an obnoxious stranger. I had him lanced back in 2004. The cute little nurse attending that operation in a support function was so startled that she dropped a tray of instruments. You can probably figure out for yourself what role a splatter guard plays in this scheme of things. And thank me for sharing.]
A PIT, AND SOME MAIZE
Somehow we got onto the subject of circumlocutory terms for body parts, and I wondered aloud how a certain orifice shared by both genders got the nickname 'cornhole' - I'm fairly certain I've heard it called that. She asserted that she had NEVER heard of it by that name. Where on earth? What the...? What DO you men talk about? "Hi, dude, how's the wife and kids and the cornhole?" "Nice weather we're having, how does it affect your cornhole?" "Here's the keys to the car, I hope your cornhole likes it?"
The more she speculated, the clearer it became that she has no clue what men say to each other.
Men and women just aren't on the same page.
After all, I never talk about my evil twin skippy. Or the wonderful features of msexcel, which is truly the spreadsheet program to end all spreadsheet programs, indeed, a veritable miracle of spreadsheet software.
Or even, chasvesholom, cornholes.
For comparison, here are some representative snippets of recent male conversations:
1. "Whut?"
2. "Dude!"
3. "Wow, man, boots!"
4. "It's stuck."
5. "Huh?!?"
I think you'll agree that these reflect an entirely different intellectual world, no?
Monday, April 27, 2009
MY BREASTS ARE TOO BIG!
Sometimes, one's significant other says something that, if you are unaware of context, strikes you as hysterically funny. Or stark-raving bonkers. Such as the phrase headlining this post.
Yesterday Savage Kitten went out to lunch with an old friend from her days studying megaviolence with sifu XXX. When she came back, she cruised into the television room all bubbly, having had an enjoyable time talking smack about some of the white people who had also studied megaviolence with that teacher -- understand, please, that I shall not divulge either the type of martial art, or the teacher's name (the circles studying how to inflict major damage on other people are so small and incestuous in the Bay Area that it would breach her and my anonymity) -- most of whom were puffy graceless poseurs into the spiritual and artistic aspects of megaviolence who always felt hurt if deprived of the limelight.
Yes, we white people are drama queens, and it's all about those neat-o costumes.
After a few minutes of happy burbling, she took off her coat and headed to the bathroom. Seconds later an anguished wail rang through the apartment:
"MY BREASTS ARE TOO BIG!"
Sweetheart, you need to take a closer look. It's not your breasts - they're perfectly alright.
Trust me, I have excellent judgment when it comes to such things.
[Besides, you are Chinese-American - big breasts are NOT part of the blueprint. That you actually have a bosom at all is somewhat remarkable.]
Your breasts are NOT too big, your t-shirt is too small. And that's the black padded sports bra you've got on, I recognized it from the fit. It always lifts and cushions in that exact way.
Men are more observant of these details than you women realize. We probably know your undergarments better than you do, having plumbed the subject in great detail. There are good reasons why the Sears-Roebuck catalogue is so well-thumbed - Or was, nearly forty years ago, when as little boys we knew all about some very peculiar feminine underwear, and first learned of support-panels and stretch fabric.
Even in our senescence, we are still avid students of the scantimenties of the opposite sex.
We fervently hope that you do not reciprocate, by the way. Our ragged baggy boxers will not bear the light of day.
And your breast are NOT too big. They're just right.
Yesterday Savage Kitten went out to lunch with an old friend from her days studying megaviolence with sifu XXX. When she came back, she cruised into the television room all bubbly, having had an enjoyable time talking smack about some of the white people who had also studied megaviolence with that teacher -- understand, please, that I shall not divulge either the type of martial art, or the teacher's name (the circles studying how to inflict major damage on other people are so small and incestuous in the Bay Area that it would breach her and my anonymity) -- most of whom were puffy graceless poseurs into the spiritual and artistic aspects of megaviolence who always felt hurt if deprived of the limelight.
Yes, we white people are drama queens, and it's all about those neat-o costumes.
After a few minutes of happy burbling, she took off her coat and headed to the bathroom. Seconds later an anguished wail rang through the apartment:
"MY BREASTS ARE TOO BIG!"
Sweetheart, you need to take a closer look. It's not your breasts - they're perfectly alright.
Trust me, I have excellent judgment when it comes to such things.
[Besides, you are Chinese-American - big breasts are NOT part of the blueprint. That you actually have a bosom at all is somewhat remarkable.]
Your breasts are NOT too big, your t-shirt is too small. And that's the black padded sports bra you've got on, I recognized it from the fit. It always lifts and cushions in that exact way.
Men are more observant of these details than you women realize. We probably know your undergarments better than you do, having plumbed the subject in great detail. There are good reasons why the Sears-Roebuck catalogue is so well-thumbed - Or was, nearly forty years ago, when as little boys we knew all about some very peculiar feminine underwear, and first learned of support-panels and stretch fabric.
Even in our senescence, we are still avid students of the scantimenties of the opposite sex.
We fervently hope that you do not reciprocate, by the way. Our ragged baggy boxers will not bear the light of day.
And your breast are NOT too big. They're just right.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
HOARDERS
This morning, while with bleary eyes I struggled to wake up, Savage Kitten came bouncing into the room, saying "you've got a psychological problem!". She cheerily clarified it by saying "you're nuts - it's a recognized symptom". She then disappeared into the kitchen to fix herself a big plate of treyf and waffles for breakfast.
As I normally have to fight against the arms of Morpheus for several more minutes, I gave her startling message little thought. Nearly an hour later she brought the subject up again. Turns out she had read an article in one of the local free papers about people who hoard, to such an extent that it impacts on their lives, their neighbors, and their health. Loners who live surrounded by stacks of newspapers, second-hand tyres, empty cans neatly rinsed (or not), and accumulated detritus that they do not wish to throw away ever. Broken refrigerators filled with screws, nails, and coils of wire. Boxes of colour-coded belly-button lint. Scrappaper of enchanting hue that means things to them alone.
It's a real illness, recognized by mental-health professionals, and a widespread problem in San Francisco.
Apparently.
Savage Kitten had helpfully brought the article home for me to read and recognize myself.
I honestly have no clue what she is thinking.
Just because I have enough pipe-tobacco stashed away to last for over two decades (more like 26 years and counting) does NOT mean I'm hoarding.
Many more books than necessary shelf-space? That is perfectly normal.
A wall of cheap paperbacks precariously balanced in the middle of the room? I'm still reading those, that's why they're there.
Stacks of paper everywhere? Yeah, yeah, I'm probably not going to read those articles again, just let me sort through it all and you can throw them away dear.
I think I know why she's got this bug up her bonnet - she's a neat-freak. It's a rejection of certain elements in her past. Elements she associates with eccentric elderly Toishanese in Chinatown. Such as her parents. And their friends.
It's a Chinese thing.
In Chinese dwellings all over San Francisco you will find the following: Thousands of newspapers neatly stacked. Clear plastic covers for everything that isn't going to be moved around. A collection of Danish butter-cookie tins, emptied and cleaned (so useful!). Half-finished sewing or repair projects from two decades ago, that will be finished just as soon as Ah-Bong or Ah-Sook finds the time! Underwear still in its sealed plastic package bought from Sears on Geary street during the Reagan era. Never opened tubes of Darky Brand toothpaste - hasn't been made in nearly twenty five years, the contents have probably gelled into cement by now, the image on the box has faded to fuzzy illegibility. Packaged food with expiration dates in the Kennedy years. Condiments that no-one in the household even likes, but because it was never opened it may NOT be thrown away. Unopened bottles with colourful labels, and giftwrapped crisposnack, tins of generic insta-bev, and informational brochures for companies that no longer exist. Because, of course, these are all useful.
Well, that just ain't me.
There are no newspapers, no Danish butter cookie tins (though I do have half-a-dozen empty eggroll cookie tins - they're cheery red and stackably square, you see).
If I don't finish a project, I throw it out before you notice. I wear my underwear, I do not save it up for a rainy day. If the food didn't get eaten, I throw it out; though there are quite a number of things in the kitchen that she brought into the house, which have been there for YEARS, which I would happily toss, but she insists on keeping, don't ask me why, it's a Chinese thing..........
I do not resemble that at all. Not in the slightest.
What really started her on this suspicion was when I was still running a hot-sauce factory in the kitchen. Raw inventory was a bit of a problem - I kept excellent track of whatever could go bad, but simply overstocked on the stuff that could keep. Such as vinegar, salt, sugar.
You should also know that the kitchen is very small and cramped. There were trays of drying chili peppers, large bags of spices, plus olive oil, limes, vinegars, salt, and sugar, in several different places. For quite a while I kept a vat of Habanero vinegar under my chair in the teevee room, along with several large jars of fermenting peppers. Eventually, everything was used up, I gave up on trying to find a stable source of Rocoto chilies, and the factory wound down (meaning that I lost interest).
The venture was profitable and fun while it lasted - you would be surprised how much flaming hotsauce software geeks go through - but with all the condimental competition out there, it never would've paid the rent.
Several weeks after I stopped manufacturing hotsauce, she discovered four bags of sugar in the teevee room. A month later, she found another five pound bag under the bed. Shortly after that, two more in a bookshelf.
All in all, over the next two years, she found an average of one five pound bag of sugar every five or six weeks.
It made one hell of an impression on her.
That was over ten years ago.
I'm still hearing about it.
As I normally have to fight against the arms of Morpheus for several more minutes, I gave her startling message little thought. Nearly an hour later she brought the subject up again. Turns out she had read an article in one of the local free papers about people who hoard, to such an extent that it impacts on their lives, their neighbors, and their health. Loners who live surrounded by stacks of newspapers, second-hand tyres, empty cans neatly rinsed (or not), and accumulated detritus that they do not wish to throw away ever. Broken refrigerators filled with screws, nails, and coils of wire. Boxes of colour-coded belly-button lint. Scrappaper of enchanting hue that means things to them alone.
It's a real illness, recognized by mental-health professionals, and a widespread problem in San Francisco.
Apparently.
Savage Kitten had helpfully brought the article home for me to read and recognize myself.
I honestly have no clue what she is thinking.
Just because I have enough pipe-tobacco stashed away to last for over two decades (more like 26 years and counting) does NOT mean I'm hoarding.
Many more books than necessary shelf-space? That is perfectly normal.
A wall of cheap paperbacks precariously balanced in the middle of the room? I'm still reading those, that's why they're there.
Stacks of paper everywhere? Yeah, yeah, I'm probably not going to read those articles again, just let me sort through it all and you can throw them away dear.
I think I know why she's got this bug up her bonnet - she's a neat-freak. It's a rejection of certain elements in her past. Elements she associates with eccentric elderly Toishanese in Chinatown. Such as her parents. And their friends.
It's a Chinese thing.
In Chinese dwellings all over San Francisco you will find the following: Thousands of newspapers neatly stacked. Clear plastic covers for everything that isn't going to be moved around. A collection of Danish butter-cookie tins, emptied and cleaned (so useful!). Half-finished sewing or repair projects from two decades ago, that will be finished just as soon as Ah-Bong or Ah-Sook finds the time! Underwear still in its sealed plastic package bought from Sears on Geary street during the Reagan era. Never opened tubes of Darky Brand toothpaste - hasn't been made in nearly twenty five years, the contents have probably gelled into cement by now, the image on the box has faded to fuzzy illegibility. Packaged food with expiration dates in the Kennedy years. Condiments that no-one in the household even likes, but because it was never opened it may NOT be thrown away. Unopened bottles with colourful labels, and giftwrapped crisposnack, tins of generic insta-bev, and informational brochures for companies that no longer exist. Because, of course, these are all useful.
Well, that just ain't me.
There are no newspapers, no Danish butter cookie tins (though I do have half-a-dozen empty eggroll cookie tins - they're cheery red and stackably square, you see).
If I don't finish a project, I throw it out before you notice. I wear my underwear, I do not save it up for a rainy day. If the food didn't get eaten, I throw it out; though there are quite a number of things in the kitchen that she brought into the house, which have been there for YEARS, which I would happily toss, but she insists on keeping, don't ask me why, it's a Chinese thing..........
I do not resemble that at all. Not in the slightest.
What really started her on this suspicion was when I was still running a hot-sauce factory in the kitchen. Raw inventory was a bit of a problem - I kept excellent track of whatever could go bad, but simply overstocked on the stuff that could keep. Such as vinegar, salt, sugar.
You should also know that the kitchen is very small and cramped. There were trays of drying chili peppers, large bags of spices, plus olive oil, limes, vinegars, salt, and sugar, in several different places. For quite a while I kept a vat of Habanero vinegar under my chair in the teevee room, along with several large jars of fermenting peppers. Eventually, everything was used up, I gave up on trying to find a stable source of Rocoto chilies, and the factory wound down (meaning that I lost interest).
The venture was profitable and fun while it lasted - you would be surprised how much flaming hotsauce software geeks go through - but with all the condimental competition out there, it never would've paid the rent.
Several weeks after I stopped manufacturing hotsauce, she discovered four bags of sugar in the teevee room. A month later, she found another five pound bag under the bed. Shortly after that, two more in a bookshelf.
All in all, over the next two years, she found an average of one five pound bag of sugar every five or six weeks.
It made one hell of an impression on her.
That was over ten years ago.
I'm still hearing about it.
Monday, March 02, 2009
I SMELL SMOKE!
One of the things boys do is push boundaries. By which I mean that they engage in a pattern of behaviour calculated to extend the limits of the permissible. This despite the rules that have been set by adults. It's an addictive behaviour. Boys do it much more than little girls, hence the sexist generalization in my statement.
Many little boys grow up. And still push the boundaries. Which explains the large number of twenty-something males yelling slurs and puking on sidewalks every weekend. Or driving down busy downtown streets looking for prostitutes, screaming, shouting, and gaily waving their privates.
Somehow these are good things, beneficial to business, economic achievement, or something. Money is being spent, which pleases the San Francisco merchants and politicians no end.
It's very middle-class, and one of the rocks upon which our great country is built.
I mention all of this, because Savage Kitten lacks a certain balanced perspective regarding my behaviour.
The other night I was sitting in the television room, very innocently minding my own business, when she yelled from her room "I smell smoke!"
This was not apropos of nothing at all, by the way.
So I hollered back "whut?"
"I smell smoke!!"
"Probably your imagination!!"
"I smell smoke!!!"
"Oh, so you're over your cold, then???"
This exchange could've gone on for several more minutes, except that she came stomping into the room and glared at me.
I pointed at the monkey and said "it was him!!!!!".
[The monkey was introduced in this post:
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2008/09/happiness-is-quarrelling-with-monkey.html
He is less than a foot tall, missing a leg since that unfortunate accident in the product-development department, and he wears a colourful silken women's shirt which was "just lying there ownerless in the womany-thing's room". He looks very innocent.]
This accusation generated howls of outrage. The monkey, it was forcefully asserted, was wholly blameless. Nay, far otherwise even, the monkey undoubtedly had remonstrated with the smoker, and warned him against puffing a pipe in the television room. The monkey was resolutely opposed to many and several of my behaviours, my dissipation appalled him! And it was obvious that I was a bad man, and did not love the monkey!
For the rest of the evening I 'pushed the boundaries of acceptable behaviour' in the kitchen.
I was undisturbed in this endeavor, as Savage Kitten and the Monkey enjoyed each other's company without my sulfurous presence. They were very firm about this.
Consequently I smoked THREE bowls of strong Virginia flake - finished the bowl in the two-tone Canadian which had betrayed me, continued with a fully bent billiard with a natural finish, then enjoyed a large semi-natural Canadian. All smoked slowly. It was yummy.
This morning, when I woke up, it felt like a camel had climbed into my mouth and died. Rasty. Fur-tongue. Dry, acrid, pelt-like. Slightly rotten and rancid. Yech.
I must have spent too much time in the kitchen last night.
I'm blaming the monkey. He could have put in a good word for me with Savage Kitten.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Many little boys grow up. And still push the boundaries. Which explains the large number of twenty-something males yelling slurs and puking on sidewalks every weekend. Or driving down busy downtown streets looking for prostitutes, screaming, shouting, and gaily waving their privates.
Somehow these are good things, beneficial to business, economic achievement, or something. Money is being spent, which pleases the San Francisco merchants and politicians no end.
It's very middle-class, and one of the rocks upon which our great country is built.
I mention all of this, because Savage Kitten lacks a certain balanced perspective regarding my behaviour.
The other night I was sitting in the television room, very innocently minding my own business, when she yelled from her room "I smell smoke!"
This was not apropos of nothing at all, by the way.
So I hollered back "whut?"
"I smell smoke!!"
"Probably your imagination!!"
"I smell smoke!!!"
"Oh, so you're over your cold, then???"
This exchange could've gone on for several more minutes, except that she came stomping into the room and glared at me.
I pointed at the monkey and said "it was him!!!!!".
[The monkey was introduced in this post:
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2008/09/happiness-is-quarrelling-with-monkey.html
He is less than a foot tall, missing a leg since that unfortunate accident in the product-development department, and he wears a colourful silken women's shirt which was "just lying there ownerless in the womany-thing's room". He looks very innocent.]
This accusation generated howls of outrage. The monkey, it was forcefully asserted, was wholly blameless. Nay, far otherwise even, the monkey undoubtedly had remonstrated with the smoker, and warned him against puffing a pipe in the television room. The monkey was resolutely opposed to many and several of my behaviours, my dissipation appalled him! And it was obvious that I was a bad man, and did not love the monkey!
For the rest of the evening I 'pushed the boundaries of acceptable behaviour' in the kitchen.
I was undisturbed in this endeavor, as Savage Kitten and the Monkey enjoyed each other's company without my sulfurous presence. They were very firm about this.
Consequently I smoked THREE bowls of strong Virginia flake - finished the bowl in the two-tone Canadian which had betrayed me, continued with a fully bent billiard with a natural finish, then enjoyed a large semi-natural Canadian. All smoked slowly. It was yummy.
This morning, when I woke up, it felt like a camel had climbed into my mouth and died. Rasty. Fur-tongue. Dry, acrid, pelt-like. Slightly rotten and rancid. Yech.
I must have spent too much time in the kitchen last night.
I'm blaming the monkey. He could have put in a good word for me with Savage Kitten.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 26, 2009
MANGA MADNESS
Yesterday afternoon Savage Kitten went over to the familial home for New Year's Dinner. Actually, seeing as it was not yet new year (that's today, in case you didn't know), it qualified more as a closing of the old year in a family context.
I of course did not go, as I do not exist.
Actually, what that really means is that we have never told any of her relatives about me.
Please try to imagine the uproar if we did.
"Mom, Dad, this is Toad, with whom I have been deliciously living in sin for many years. The bad news is, he's white and glows in the dark. The good news is, he speaks Cantonese. Now go scream at him colorfully in your language while I prepare myself a stiff drink."
Yes, that is SO not going to happen.
For one thing, she doesn't drink.
Instead, while she enjoyed the warm embrace of family across the hill in Chinatown, I headed in the opposite direction to visit Kinokunya Books in Nihonmachi.
I returned with volume twelve of Chibi Vampire, volume three of Rosario Vampire, volume three of Your And My Secret, and two volumes of a series of which I can't at present remember the name.
In order, cute moe romantic comedy set in a high school, hot high school lust and monster comedy, over the top genderbent comedy, and two books with....... thighs.
Specifically, delicious plump thighs of which only a wee bit is visible between the hem of the skirt and the top of the thigh-high stockings. There are four girls, there is one boy. The story is utterly forgettable, but the illustrations cater most appetizingly to perverts. Short short skirts, thigh high stockings. Six inches of smooth smooth thigh. Plus the occasional flash of something lacy in a context that makes no sense. And silhouettes of very generous .... errrm, uh, ehhh, secondary characteristics. Yes, that's it - "secondaries".
The artist who drew the story is an utter degenerate - not someone you should allow anywhere near your children. Not even if you introduce him as "Uncle Dirty Old Man", and tell them to never ever allow him into the house.
I finished all five books (plus a few cocktails and a big bowl of crispy bits and sausage cucumber noodles herbs in zesty curry broth) by the time Savage Kitten returned. So I at least had a splendid afternoon.
I'm not so sure about her.
Significantly, she applauding the very recent acquisition of a bottle of Jim Beam, which she noticed as soon as she came home.
I of course did not go, as I do not exist.
Actually, what that really means is that we have never told any of her relatives about me.
Please try to imagine the uproar if we did.
"Mom, Dad, this is Toad, with whom I have been deliciously living in sin for many years. The bad news is, he's white and glows in the dark. The good news is, he speaks Cantonese. Now go scream at him colorfully in your language while I prepare myself a stiff drink."
Yes, that is SO not going to happen.
For one thing, she doesn't drink.
Instead, while she enjoyed the warm embrace of family across the hill in Chinatown, I headed in the opposite direction to visit Kinokunya Books in Nihonmachi.
I returned with volume twelve of Chibi Vampire, volume three of Rosario Vampire, volume three of Your And My Secret, and two volumes of a series of which I can't at present remember the name.
In order, cute moe romantic comedy set in a high school, hot high school lust and monster comedy, over the top genderbent comedy, and two books with....... thighs.
Specifically, delicious plump thighs of which only a wee bit is visible between the hem of the skirt and the top of the thigh-high stockings. There are four girls, there is one boy. The story is utterly forgettable, but the illustrations cater most appetizingly to perverts. Short short skirts, thigh high stockings. Six inches of smooth smooth thigh. Plus the occasional flash of something lacy in a context that makes no sense. And silhouettes of very generous .... errrm, uh, ehhh, secondary characteristics. Yes, that's it - "secondaries".
The artist who drew the story is an utter degenerate - not someone you should allow anywhere near your children. Not even if you introduce him as "Uncle Dirty Old Man", and tell them to never ever allow him into the house.
I finished all five books (plus a few cocktails and a big bowl of crispy bits and sausage cucumber noodles herbs in zesty curry broth) by the time Savage Kitten returned. So I at least had a splendid afternoon.
I'm not so sure about her.
Significantly, she applauding the very recent acquisition of a bottle of Jim Beam, which she noticed as soon as she came home.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
THE MATING BEHAVIOUR OF THE ARENA KINGFISHER
The Arena Kingfisher, also known as the Crimson-Crested Kingfisher.
Chest feathers of the female match the crest-hue of the male. The male crest consists of a flaring crown that starts above the beak.
Native names: BUGONG TALIPIYANG, TIWIPANG
Complex instinctive behaviours coupled with a broad range of emotional responses.
GENERAL PREPARATORY BEHAVIOUR:
Female devotes attention to self-preening, displays rump with tail-feathers closed. Attends to mating arena by manipulating the shrubbery and grass with her beak. Shows her readiness to mate by strutting and pausing, while looking from side to side every few paces.
STAGE ONE: ACQUAINTING:
Male and female circle each other at a distance while miming feeding with their beaks, and making clawing motions on the ground of the arena.
STAGE TWO: MALE EXHIBIT:
The male perches on nearby branches, moving from one to another, while craning and arching neck, flaring neck and shoulder feathers, and deliberately looking away from the female.
STAGE THREE: APPROACH:
Both birds approach each other, moving in a circling advance around the edges of the arena, familiarizing themselves with the place, and with each other. During this process, they often face each other briefly.
STAGE FOUR: FLIRTATION:
The two birds move heads in synchronization. The female keeps her head lower, on level with his neck, while looking up. She responds to his craning motions with upward nudges.
STAGE FIVE: MUTUAL PREENING:
The classic display of comfort-level affirmation, with mutual neck nudging and rubbing motions along the feathers of the partner. Both birds engage in this.
NOTE: A couple at the bar a few days ago displayed a remarkable approximation of this, going through all the stages up to and including the mutual preening. Then they left. Consequently, describing what happens next is rather pointless.
Chest feathers of the female match the crest-hue of the male. The male crest consists of a flaring crown that starts above the beak.
Native names: BUGONG TALIPIYANG, TIWIPANG
Complex instinctive behaviours coupled with a broad range of emotional responses.
GENERAL PREPARATORY BEHAVIOUR:
Female devotes attention to self-preening, displays rump with tail-feathers closed. Attends to mating arena by manipulating the shrubbery and grass with her beak. Shows her readiness to mate by strutting and pausing, while looking from side to side every few paces.
STAGE ONE: ACQUAINTING:
Male and female circle each other at a distance while miming feeding with their beaks, and making clawing motions on the ground of the arena.
STAGE TWO: MALE EXHIBIT:
The male perches on nearby branches, moving from one to another, while craning and arching neck, flaring neck and shoulder feathers, and deliberately looking away from the female.
STAGE THREE: APPROACH:
Both birds approach each other, moving in a circling advance around the edges of the arena, familiarizing themselves with the place, and with each other. During this process, they often face each other briefly.
STAGE FOUR: FLIRTATION:
The two birds move heads in synchronization. The female keeps her head lower, on level with his neck, while looking up. She responds to his craning motions with upward nudges.
STAGE FIVE: MUTUAL PREENING:
The classic display of comfort-level affirmation, with mutual neck nudging and rubbing motions along the feathers of the partner. Both birds engage in this.
NOTE: A couple at the bar a few days ago displayed a remarkable approximation of this, going through all the stages up to and including the mutual preening. Then they left. Consequently, describing what happens next is rather pointless.
Monday, October 20, 2008
SOMETHING SMELLY THIS WAY COMES
Then - 1976
Dusk and dawn take longer in Valkenswaard than here in SF. At this time of year, the morning mist covers the market square, the glimmer of the sun from the direction of the Hofnar cigar factory is scarcely visible. A flock of screaming marsh birds from the fens south of town circle and swoop over the bricks every morning at first light.
My father has come upstairs to wash. I go down to the kitchen, have a cup of coffee, and head out on my bike to enjoy the first pipe of the day. Along the square, up the Leender Weg, then north past the other cigar factory (Willem II). Beyond the warehouses there is a reek of fermented leaves, pressed and steamed - Java and Sumatra, Brazil and Cameroon. A warm fecund aroma, strongest at this time of day. Now turn west, then south on the Eindhovensche Weg, and back home to Kerk Steeg.
I wheel my bike into the stables (now a garage for the beetle and our bicycles), and open the kitchen door.
My father is downstairs again, having his second cup of coffee and reading the Dutch newspaper before heading to the office. I pour myself a short half-cup, and sit down to read yesterday's Herald Tribune.
His rustles his paper and asks "did you have the boys over yesterday evening?"
Indeed I did - Dion DeLeeuw, Boudewijn de Bats, Herman Ritter, Tom Bouten, Leendert Westerneng ... And one person whose name I can no longer remember, though I could still find his apartment with my eyes closed (he lived one block away from where the pretty Asian girl went to school).
We drank beer and coffee. A late night gathering after closing Parsifal had become our custom. Last night it took place in our kitchen. The boys put up with my horrid pipe-tobacco because I make excellent coffee. It was a very pleasant hour.
My father knows that this is what we do, and does not object when it happens in our kitchen.
This morning he extends a hand from behind his paper while telling me "ask your friends not to leave this here the next time - they might miss it".
He hands me a one kilo brick of hashish.
Lebanese. Nice quality.
With a corner broken off.
Last night, while I had been smoking Balkan Sobranie (the stinky pipe-tobacco aforementioned), the chap whose name I cannot remember but whose apartment I can still find blindfolded had rolled joints - he was the house dealer at Parsifal.
He had left his stuff on the table when he went home. For my father to discover when he came downstairs.
I am fairly certain my father knew what it was. But I wonder how he knew.
I left before my father finished his newspaper. So that I could return the brick of hashish on my way to school. It was already light out by that time.
Now - 2008
Yesterday evening I went into the kitchen several times for coffee and a smoke (last week Savage Kitten gave me a coffee maker for my birthday, the old one having crapped out several months ago). The smells of Balkan-style tobacco and good coffee from Peet's reminded me of those final years in Valkenswaard. That, and the sense of quiet throughout the building....... My mind's nose again remembered that night, that morning, the perfume of the tobacco, the reek of hashish, and the dry leaves on the Market Square. It was very good.
--------------------------------
--------------------------------
NOTE:
The name of the Balkan style tobacco is not important, and you probably have your own favourite. It isn't Balkan Sobranie, as that has not been available for over a decade. But if your local tobacconist does not stock a decent Balkan mixture, you can compound something yourself.
BALKAN BLEND
Eight parts Latakia
Five parts Turkish
Four parts medium flake, rubbed and fluffed
One part plain cavendish
One part bright ribbon
Let it age in a tightly closed jar for at least a week before smoking. If you added a shpritz of water while mixing, the flavours will meld better.
[Half a part to as much as one and a half parts Perique may be added. Perique lessens tongue-burn.]
Do not smoke it in large pipes - a regular size bowl is best.
Have some good strong coffee while enjoying a pipe full. Peet's is an excellent merchant of beans. As regards the kilo of Lebanese, however, I have no recommendations. I'm afraid you are on your own there. House dealers in the US are not the kind of people you would want to visit you late at night. This is not the same environment as the Netherlands, dusk and dawn are also different here.
Tobacco and coffee however are universal.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Dusk and dawn take longer in Valkenswaard than here in SF. At this time of year, the morning mist covers the market square, the glimmer of the sun from the direction of the Hofnar cigar factory is scarcely visible. A flock of screaming marsh birds from the fens south of town circle and swoop over the bricks every morning at first light.
My father has come upstairs to wash. I go down to the kitchen, have a cup of coffee, and head out on my bike to enjoy the first pipe of the day. Along the square, up the Leender Weg, then north past the other cigar factory (Willem II). Beyond the warehouses there is a reek of fermented leaves, pressed and steamed - Java and Sumatra, Brazil and Cameroon. A warm fecund aroma, strongest at this time of day. Now turn west, then south on the Eindhovensche Weg, and back home to Kerk Steeg.
I wheel my bike into the stables (now a garage for the beetle and our bicycles), and open the kitchen door.
My father is downstairs again, having his second cup of coffee and reading the Dutch newspaper before heading to the office. I pour myself a short half-cup, and sit down to read yesterday's Herald Tribune.
His rustles his paper and asks "did you have the boys over yesterday evening?"
Indeed I did - Dion DeLeeuw, Boudewijn de Bats, Herman Ritter, Tom Bouten, Leendert Westerneng ... And one person whose name I can no longer remember, though I could still find his apartment with my eyes closed (he lived one block away from where the pretty Asian girl went to school).
We drank beer and coffee. A late night gathering after closing Parsifal had become our custom. Last night it took place in our kitchen. The boys put up with my horrid pipe-tobacco because I make excellent coffee. It was a very pleasant hour.
My father knows that this is what we do, and does not object when it happens in our kitchen.
This morning he extends a hand from behind his paper while telling me "ask your friends not to leave this here the next time - they might miss it".
He hands me a one kilo brick of hashish.
Lebanese. Nice quality.
With a corner broken off.
Last night, while I had been smoking Balkan Sobranie (the stinky pipe-tobacco aforementioned), the chap whose name I cannot remember but whose apartment I can still find blindfolded had rolled joints - he was the house dealer at Parsifal.
He had left his stuff on the table when he went home. For my father to discover when he came downstairs.
I am fairly certain my father knew what it was. But I wonder how he knew.
I left before my father finished his newspaper. So that I could return the brick of hashish on my way to school. It was already light out by that time.
Now - 2008
Yesterday evening I went into the kitchen several times for coffee and a smoke (last week Savage Kitten gave me a coffee maker for my birthday, the old one having crapped out several months ago). The smells of Balkan-style tobacco and good coffee from Peet's reminded me of those final years in Valkenswaard. That, and the sense of quiet throughout the building....... My mind's nose again remembered that night, that morning, the perfume of the tobacco, the reek of hashish, and the dry leaves on the Market Square. It was very good.
--------------------------------
--------------------------------
NOTE:
The name of the Balkan style tobacco is not important, and you probably have your own favourite. It isn't Balkan Sobranie, as that has not been available for over a decade. But if your local tobacconist does not stock a decent Balkan mixture, you can compound something yourself.
BALKAN BLEND
Eight parts Latakia
Five parts Turkish
Four parts medium flake, rubbed and fluffed
One part plain cavendish
One part bright ribbon
Let it age in a tightly closed jar for at least a week before smoking. If you added a shpritz of water while mixing, the flavours will meld better.
[Half a part to as much as one and a half parts Perique may be added. Perique lessens tongue-burn.]
Do not smoke it in large pipes - a regular size bowl is best.
Have some good strong coffee while enjoying a pipe full. Peet's is an excellent merchant of beans. As regards the kilo of Lebanese, however, I have no recommendations. I'm afraid you are on your own there. House dealers in the US are not the kind of people you would want to visit you late at night. This is not the same environment as the Netherlands, dusk and dawn are also different here.
Tobacco and coffee however are universal.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, October 13, 2008
A MIDDLE AGED MAN AND LITTLE CHILDREN
I love children, I really do. Especially when they are between three and five years old. But, lest you now jump to hire me as a baby-sitter, I should mention that there are reasons why people keep me away from their kids.
Some of my friends even send the kids out of town when I visit.
Others just make sure that the kinderlech get no opportunity to talk to me.
It: "Uncle BOTH, why do cars move?"
Me: 'They are desperately trying to get away from their butts.'
It: "Why?"
Me: 'Because they are full of gas - that's why they make those put-put-put sounds as they flee.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why are there no dinosaurs here?"
Me: 'San Francisco is too crowded for them so they all moved to Las Vegas.'
It: "What do dinosaurs eat?"
Me: 'Pizza, extra large, with all the toppings and piled with anchovies, just like everybody else in Vegas.'
It: "What do dinosaurs do?"
Me: 'They work as lounge singers in Las Vegas. They're very popular with old people.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why is the sky blue?"
Me: 'That was the cheapest colour the master of the universe could find when he repainted; it used to be puce.'
It: "What's puce?"
Me: 'Kinda like dog poo.'
It: "What is the master of the universe?"
Me: 'Someone with lots of spare time since the kids all moved away and no longer call.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why do we celebrate Jesus' birthday?"
Me: ' 'Cause we're close to Mexico.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why did Pooky scratch me?"
Me: 'He thought you were filled with candy, just like your older brother.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why did my aunt die?"
Me: 'Spite.'
See, there's a reason people keep their little darlings from talking to me.
I talk back.
This past weekend was fleet-week weekend here in San Francisco. Which always coincides with Columbus Day. This means drunken sailors, lots of goobers, and a loud air-show over the city featuring dare-devil biplanes and the Navy's own obnoxiously loud Blue-Angels. Lordy, I hate the sound of jets roaring overhead. It's a stupid, hubristic display of testicular exhibitionism.
But first, idiots doing loop-de-loops in biplanes.
It: "Uncle BOTH, what's that buzzing?"
Me: 'That's a very rare insect, the Columbus Day mosquito, which only comes one day a year.'
It: "Is it dangerous?"
Me: 'Oh, very. The Indians hate Columbus Day, because it killed so many of them.'
It: "Will it kill us?"
Me: 'No, Boruch Hashem, because we have large blue phallic fly-swatters that fly through the sky and chase it away. If you stare at the sky long enough you'll see them. But until then, you've got to run around in circles very fast so that the Columbus Day mosquitoes can't catch you. It hurts like heck when they do.'
It: "Uncle BOTH, why aren't you running?"
Me: 'Cause I'm not young and juicy but old and knackered - do you see anyone biting me? You, on the other hand.... so soft, so tender, so very very sweet. Quick, there's one right behind you!!! Run! Run! Run! Run faster! And make some noise!'
All things considered, I had a very fine weekend. Even though there is now yet one more kid I'm not allowed to talk to.
At least she'll always be wary of the Blue Angels.
Or other things in the sky.
But mostly Blue Angels.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Some of my friends even send the kids out of town when I visit.
Others just make sure that the kinderlech get no opportunity to talk to me.
It: "Uncle BOTH, why do cars move?"
Me: 'They are desperately trying to get away from their butts.'
It: "Why?"
Me: 'Because they are full of gas - that's why they make those put-put-put sounds as they flee.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why are there no dinosaurs here?"
Me: 'San Francisco is too crowded for them so they all moved to Las Vegas.'
It: "What do dinosaurs eat?"
Me: 'Pizza, extra large, with all the toppings and piled with anchovies, just like everybody else in Vegas.'
It: "What do dinosaurs do?"
Me: 'They work as lounge singers in Las Vegas. They're very popular with old people.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why is the sky blue?"
Me: 'That was the cheapest colour the master of the universe could find when he repainted; it used to be puce.'
It: "What's puce?"
Me: 'Kinda like dog poo.'
It: "What is the master of the universe?"
Me: 'Someone with lots of spare time since the kids all moved away and no longer call.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why do we celebrate Jesus' birthday?"
Me: ' 'Cause we're close to Mexico.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why did Pooky scratch me?"
Me: 'He thought you were filled with candy, just like your older brother.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why did my aunt die?"
Me: 'Spite.'
See, there's a reason people keep their little darlings from talking to me.
I talk back.
This past weekend was fleet-week weekend here in San Francisco. Which always coincides with Columbus Day. This means drunken sailors, lots of goobers, and a loud air-show over the city featuring dare-devil biplanes and the Navy's own obnoxiously loud Blue-Angels. Lordy, I hate the sound of jets roaring overhead. It's a stupid, hubristic display of testicular exhibitionism.
But first, idiots doing loop-de-loops in biplanes.
It: "Uncle BOTH, what's that buzzing?"
Me: 'That's a very rare insect, the Columbus Day mosquito, which only comes one day a year.'
It: "Is it dangerous?"
Me: 'Oh, very. The Indians hate Columbus Day, because it killed so many of them.'
It: "Will it kill us?"
Me: 'No, Boruch Hashem, because we have large blue phallic fly-swatters that fly through the sky and chase it away. If you stare at the sky long enough you'll see them. But until then, you've got to run around in circles very fast so that the Columbus Day mosquitoes can't catch you. It hurts like heck when they do.'
It: "Uncle BOTH, why aren't you running?"
Me: 'Cause I'm not young and juicy but old and knackered - do you see anyone biting me? You, on the other hand.... so soft, so tender, so very very sweet. Quick, there's one right behind you!!! Run! Run! Run! Run faster! And make some noise!'
All things considered, I had a very fine weekend. Even though there is now yet one more kid I'm not allowed to talk to.
At least she'll always be wary of the Blue Angels.
Or other things in the sky.
But mostly Blue Angels.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
SMELL MY HAIR!
Americans have a hair fetish. I realized this yesterday afternoon when I went to Walgreens for some shampoo. If it weren't for the American bosom-fixation, there would be no naked-women porn at all, just lots of glossy pictures of coiffures, and late-night wig stores all over the place.
The Walgreens near the office has an entire aisle of shampoo. It just does not have any normal shampoo.
It has products with tea tree oil, herbal extractives, lavender, blossoms, fruit essences, frootiqueries, lactobang, egg-yolk and verbena, sandalum alba, olive oil, vitamins E, C, A, mineral supplement shampoo, environmental shampoo, extra shine, therapeutic, deep-cleansing, soothing, ayurvedic, yin-yang, ylang-ylang, blonde bombshell super-mane, dyed hair, soft hair, delicate hair, dry hair, fragile hair, insecure hair, special hair, and office bitch from hell attitude hair.
Multiples from several different manufacturers, including the Japanese.
It differs from the Walgreens near my apartment, which has at least three nice unstinky shampoos for 'normal hair', and not very much else.
You might think that I would simply hold-off until I got back to my own neighborhood and buy a familiar product, but you would be wrong.
I cannot go to the Walgreens in my neighborhood.
It isn't because I propositioned a nice teenage clerky-poo behind the counter, or exposed myself in the aisle with the pads for the elderly. Nothing like that at all. Nor have I developed an issue regarding the large spotty spectacles-woman who manages the place.
I do not go there because that entire intersection is filled with street people, drawn by the bright lights of a drugstore which is open till twelve, the magnetism of two insta-tellers, a movie theatre, liquor stores and restaurants, and a discount tobacco centre which is open in the evening.
The frenetic buzzing disturbs me, I'll Walgreenize near work, thank you.
So I bought the most unfroofroo shampoo I could find.
GILLETTE CLEAN AND REFRESHING SHAMPOO - 'with refreshing mint'.
I am willing to try something new. Even hair mint.
A brief note about the bathroom. See, the shower thingy doesn't work, hasn't functioned for ten years. I could get the manager in to fix, like the last time, but it doesn't seem worth it for something that, in theory, I could do myself, but haven't. So instead, Savage Kitten and I take baths and rinse off afterwards by dumping buckets of water over ourselves. The net result is the same.
And perhaps I should also explain that mint not only refreshes, but sometimes nips, stings and tingles - especially on the squidgy bits. Of which, sitting in the warm water while lathering my hair I slowly became aware. Acutely. A sensation of increasing warmth, tingle, and itch, in a place where at the time I did not want either warmth or tingle. Or itch.
This is not a problem that can be solved by simply standing up, as the mint extractives which cause the issue will still be in the water droplets pearling the naked body. And standing up abruptly with the eyes closed is not a good idea - not in a bath tub.
I can see the headline already: "ambulance hauls away naked minty man", or "nude breaks leg due to crotch itch".
I do want to be famous, but not that way.
It reminded me of a time when the shower still worked. Years ago I used to bottle my own hot sauce, made with Scotch Bonnet peppers and Habaňeros. I would go through pounds of chilies, cutting them open to check for rotten spots before dumping them in the blender. Doing so one day, at one point I needed to visit the powder room. Meh, no problem, wash hands thoroughly with strong soap, two or three times, before.....................
I spent an hour under an ice-cold shower that day. I remember it well.
Anyhow, the minty component of this new shampoo is not quite in that league. Not enough to cause accidents by a long shot. And I do indeed feel clean and refreshed. Oh boy do I ever.
I want to sniff myself.
Mmmmm, zesty!
I smell good. I am fresh. Oh yes!
I like how I feel - I will keep this tingly product.
I can't wait till Savage Kitten discovers the new shampoo.
The Walgreens near the office has an entire aisle of shampoo. It just does not have any normal shampoo.
It has products with tea tree oil, herbal extractives, lavender, blossoms, fruit essences, frootiqueries, lactobang, egg-yolk and verbena, sandalum alba, olive oil, vitamins E, C, A, mineral supplement shampoo, environmental shampoo, extra shine, therapeutic, deep-cleansing, soothing, ayurvedic, yin-yang, ylang-ylang, blonde bombshell super-mane, dyed hair, soft hair, delicate hair, dry hair, fragile hair, insecure hair, special hair, and office bitch from hell attitude hair.
Multiples from several different manufacturers, including the Japanese.
It differs from the Walgreens near my apartment, which has at least three nice unstinky shampoos for 'normal hair', and not very much else.
You might think that I would simply hold-off until I got back to my own neighborhood and buy a familiar product, but you would be wrong.
I cannot go to the Walgreens in my neighborhood.
It isn't because I propositioned a nice teenage clerky-poo behind the counter, or exposed myself in the aisle with the pads for the elderly. Nothing like that at all. Nor have I developed an issue regarding the large spotty spectacles-woman who manages the place.
I do not go there because that entire intersection is filled with street people, drawn by the bright lights of a drugstore which is open till twelve, the magnetism of two insta-tellers, a movie theatre, liquor stores and restaurants, and a discount tobacco centre which is open in the evening.
The frenetic buzzing disturbs me, I'll Walgreenize near work, thank you.
So I bought the most unfroofroo shampoo I could find.
GILLETTE CLEAN AND REFRESHING SHAMPOO - 'with refreshing mint'.
I am willing to try something new. Even hair mint.
A brief note about the bathroom. See, the shower thingy doesn't work, hasn't functioned for ten years. I could get the manager in to fix, like the last time, but it doesn't seem worth it for something that, in theory, I could do myself, but haven't. So instead, Savage Kitten and I take baths and rinse off afterwards by dumping buckets of water over ourselves. The net result is the same.
And perhaps I should also explain that mint not only refreshes, but sometimes nips, stings and tingles - especially on the squidgy bits. Of which, sitting in the warm water while lathering my hair I slowly became aware. Acutely. A sensation of increasing warmth, tingle, and itch, in a place where at the time I did not want either warmth or tingle. Or itch.
This is not a problem that can be solved by simply standing up, as the mint extractives which cause the issue will still be in the water droplets pearling the naked body. And standing up abruptly with the eyes closed is not a good idea - not in a bath tub.
I can see the headline already: "ambulance hauls away naked minty man", or "nude breaks leg due to crotch itch".
I do want to be famous, but not that way.
It reminded me of a time when the shower still worked. Years ago I used to bottle my own hot sauce, made with Scotch Bonnet peppers and Habaňeros. I would go through pounds of chilies, cutting them open to check for rotten spots before dumping them in the blender. Doing so one day, at one point I needed to visit the powder room. Meh, no problem, wash hands thoroughly with strong soap, two or three times, before.....................
I spent an hour under an ice-cold shower that day. I remember it well.
Anyhow, the minty component of this new shampoo is not quite in that league. Not enough to cause accidents by a long shot. And I do indeed feel clean and refreshed. Oh boy do I ever.
I want to sniff myself.
Mmmmm, zesty!
I smell good. I am fresh. Oh yes!
I like how I feel - I will keep this tingly product.
I can't wait till Savage Kitten discovers the new shampoo.
Friday, September 26, 2008
WAKING UP WITH A KITTEN
As of this morning, I realize that I really don't know what is up with that woman. When I got home last night she was asleep in what can only be described as the most uncomfortable position - no, I'm not going to describe it; just imagine your own most uncomfortable position and put some pajamas on - and she is currently going through a monthly biological process that I shall not describe either, so she should be drained, exhausted, pooped out, and just plain limp.
Yet she bounced out of bed this morning way before I did, full of bright cheerful piss and vinegar, oppressively vivacious. I stumbled out of bed quite a while later, stiff-jointed and feeling twinges of gout in both feet.
I grumblingly drank my coffee while she burbled.
I have told to her that I shall be at the Folsom Street Fair this Sunday, in connection with .... "education". So she brightly suggested that I should keep an especial eye out for men with hairy cheeks showing through the cut-outs in their ass-chaps.
[The Folsom Street Fair is the biggest leather event in San Francisco. Many of the big butch gentlemen who attend wear skimpy scanty leather get-ups and nearly nothing else. In recent years, more families and women have also attended. I shall be there in an informational function - I do not have leather clothing, and do not own any whips, riding crops, quirts, paddles, studded straps, spandex vests, cowhide diapers, ass-chaps, or buffalo skin tights.]
When I looked up from my coffee and asked her why I should look for such men, she said "because they might be related to you....., you know, hairy buttocks".
"My butt is not hairy!"
"How do you know? You've never seen it, I have."
"I've felt it - it is not hairy!! Not. At. All!!!"
"Sure it is. Kind of like two furry hibernating forest critters."
"Not!!!!!!"
"A pair of hugging hairy trolls, just waiting to jump out at unsuspecting travelers......."
I should mention at this point that Savage Kitten has a rich inner life, and, being of Chinese ancestry, may consider Caucasian skin to be impossibly fuzzy. But she has a tendency towards poetic exaggeration. Which her subsequent speculation on my eventual residence in a retirement home exemplified.
Apparently I shall be a source of constant fear and frustration for Doctor Gumbly and Nurse Twaddle.
"Doctor Gumbly, the patient is hiding weapons in his arse fur! We've already pulled a cleaver out of a dense patch!"
"Nurse Twaddle, use electric hedge-clippers and a rake!"
"I daren't, I don't know what else is still in there! I need a machete!"
"We have no machete! You know they don't allow them in retirement homes since that incident last year!"
"In that case, give me ten-foot pole and a hazmat suit!"
"Godspeed, and be careful! We can't afford another search-party if you get stranded!"
This is the same woman who has previously asserted that I shall probably be rolling after the caregivers in my wheelchair, leering lasciviously and making pervert sounds. Or running down innocent little schoolgirls with my walker and scaring them. A senile delinquent, and a veritable hazard to public order.
I think that all of this is merely her 'charming' way of making sure that I am awake in the morning, and properly riled up. Rhetorical shock-treatment, to startle the toad into a state of goggle-eyed alertness. Surely she does not believe that any of it is possible?
Yet perhaps I should control her caffeine-intake. I do not know how much of this cheerfulness a man is supposed to stand.
Besides, I am not a hairy pervert. As is well known.
Yet she bounced out of bed this morning way before I did, full of bright cheerful piss and vinegar, oppressively vivacious. I stumbled out of bed quite a while later, stiff-jointed and feeling twinges of gout in both feet.
I grumblingly drank my coffee while she burbled.
I have told to her that I shall be at the Folsom Street Fair this Sunday, in connection with .... "education". So she brightly suggested that I should keep an especial eye out for men with hairy cheeks showing through the cut-outs in their ass-chaps.
[The Folsom Street Fair is the biggest leather event in San Francisco. Many of the big butch gentlemen who attend wear skimpy scanty leather get-ups and nearly nothing else. In recent years, more families and women have also attended. I shall be there in an informational function - I do not have leather clothing, and do not own any whips, riding crops, quirts, paddles, studded straps, spandex vests, cowhide diapers, ass-chaps, or buffalo skin tights.]
When I looked up from my coffee and asked her why I should look for such men, she said "because they might be related to you....., you know, hairy buttocks".
"My butt is not hairy!"
"How do you know? You've never seen it, I have."
"I've felt it - it is not hairy!! Not. At. All!!!"
"Sure it is. Kind of like two furry hibernating forest critters."
"Not!!!!!!"
"A pair of hugging hairy trolls, just waiting to jump out at unsuspecting travelers......."
I should mention at this point that Savage Kitten has a rich inner life, and, being of Chinese ancestry, may consider Caucasian skin to be impossibly fuzzy. But she has a tendency towards poetic exaggeration. Which her subsequent speculation on my eventual residence in a retirement home exemplified.
Apparently I shall be a source of constant fear and frustration for Doctor Gumbly and Nurse Twaddle.
"Doctor Gumbly, the patient is hiding weapons in his arse fur! We've already pulled a cleaver out of a dense patch!"
"Nurse Twaddle, use electric hedge-clippers and a rake!"
"I daren't, I don't know what else is still in there! I need a machete!"
"We have no machete! You know they don't allow them in retirement homes since that incident last year!"
"In that case, give me ten-foot pole and a hazmat suit!"
"Godspeed, and be careful! We can't afford another search-party if you get stranded!"
This is the same woman who has previously asserted that I shall probably be rolling after the caregivers in my wheelchair, leering lasciviously and making pervert sounds. Or running down innocent little schoolgirls with my walker and scaring them. A senile delinquent, and a veritable hazard to public order.
I think that all of this is merely her 'charming' way of making sure that I am awake in the morning, and properly riled up. Rhetorical shock-treatment, to startle the toad into a state of goggle-eyed alertness. Surely she does not believe that any of it is possible?
Yet perhaps I should control her caffeine-intake. I do not know how much of this cheerfulness a man is supposed to stand.
Besides, I am not a hairy pervert. As is well known.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
A LOVELY BUNCH OF COCONUTS
In order to properly lament the end of a long weekend and the return to the mundane world, I stopped by a neighborhood bar last night, becoming the third customer in the place.
The other two customers consisted of the Dreary Old Bore, and a person with what can only be described in lascivious terms - which, for reasons of tzenua, I shall not describe. Just imagine what was visible from bar-level up.
The person with the two lovely undescribed items was happily turning back and forth in her chair. The plunging neckline left nothing to the imagination of that which I am asking you to imagine.
Or of those. Imagine them. Plural.
The Dreary Old Bore was far less boring than normal - he couldn't tear his eyes away. Just sat there staring. Mouth agape. Eyes directly aimed at whatever it is that, for reasons of tzenua, I cannot name.
What made it truly interesting was that the owner of the lovely indescribables was obviously not originally female.
But according to the bartender, they were indeed real, not implants. Just the natural result of hormone treatment.
Anything that can shut the Dreary Old Bore up has my vote. I understand that the hormone treatment is both ongoing and progressing. I keenly look forward to further developments.
The other two customers consisted of the Dreary Old Bore, and a person with what can only be described in lascivious terms - which, for reasons of tzenua, I shall not describe. Just imagine what was visible from bar-level up.
The person with the two lovely undescribed items was happily turning back and forth in her chair. The plunging neckline left nothing to the imagination of that which I am asking you to imagine.
Or of those. Imagine them. Plural.
The Dreary Old Bore was far less boring than normal - he couldn't tear his eyes away. Just sat there staring. Mouth agape. Eyes directly aimed at whatever it is that, for reasons of tzenua, I cannot name.
What made it truly interesting was that the owner of the lovely indescribables was obviously not originally female.
But according to the bartender, they were indeed real, not implants. Just the natural result of hormone treatment.
Anything that can shut the Dreary Old Bore up has my vote. I understand that the hormone treatment is both ongoing and progressing. I keenly look forward to further developments.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
HAPPINESS IS QUARRELLING WITH A MONKEY
It was a lovely weekend. We did not go anywhere.
San Francisco was nice and quiet, the streets between our house and the Indian Restaurant near Japantown were glorious in the afternoon sunlight; dust-motes refracted in slanting beams, the lengthened shade of trees; after several months of gloom we are finally enjoying some summer weather.
So of course we stayed indoors most of the time.
Sunday and Monday I paddled around the house in my bare feet, wearing baggies and a wife-beater, and smoking a tobacco that I will not confess to liking or reveal the name of before I post a defensive review on this blog - It's aza sleazy and kurvedik that it absolutely requires apologesis, despite the extremely reputable company that produced it.
It is not as bad as some of the coconut-peach-mango rum-topf perfume abortions that many suburban tobacconists vend, but it's pretty darn shameless. A veritable brass-pole slut.
Albeit a very fine product.
A pattern became apparent during the day. The stuffed monkey would start making nasty comments about some of the other roomies, and after a few minutes of arguing with him, I would send him to the corner, and head into the kitchen with a pipe for some peace and quiet.
What kind of nasty comments did he make? Really cruel ones. Judge for yourself.
About the sock-goat: "He smells all nanky, la."
About the small she-sheep: "Of course she's stupid - she's a pretty little girlie!"
About the froad: "Nasty green flippery guy."
About the hand-puppet spider: "Him evil - squash the bug."
About the little punk piglet: "Juicy pork!"
These are not the kind of comments a gentleman would make. Nor would a gentleman suggest that the froad has a gas problem, that the piglet could easily miss a limb - she has four ("more than enough for such a lazy creature!"), or that the sock-goat had no feelings because he was inferior and inbred. That, plus his insistence that he himself looked like Humphrey Bogart ("the world's handsomest Philippino"), and that Ms. Bruin had it in for him, would be enough to send any man into the kitchen. Often. With pipes and fruity tobacco.
Ten bowls full.
Big bowls.
Full of perfumy tobacco.
Don't blame me if the kitchen now reeks like a Portuguese dance hall.
It's all the monkey's fault.
-------------------------------
Savage Kitten lazed about reading during most of Sunday and Monday. And occasionally had a snack. Slices of melon, plus peaches, plums, and a large bag of sour-cream and onion chips. She was exceptionally lazy. Which is davka what Labor Day is all about.
I shan't even mention her crazy theory that it is okay to be slovenly on Labor Day because one is rejecting the tyranny of middle-class salary-prompted value-systems.
I have no idea what that means, but it is probably wrong. After all, she's a pretty little...........
San Francisco was nice and quiet, the streets between our house and the Indian Restaurant near Japantown were glorious in the afternoon sunlight; dust-motes refracted in slanting beams, the lengthened shade of trees; after several months of gloom we are finally enjoying some summer weather.
So of course we stayed indoors most of the time.
Sunday and Monday I paddled around the house in my bare feet, wearing baggies and a wife-beater, and smoking a tobacco that I will not confess to liking or reveal the name of before I post a defensive review on this blog - It's aza sleazy and kurvedik that it absolutely requires apologesis, despite the extremely reputable company that produced it.
It is not as bad as some of the coconut-peach-mango rum-topf perfume abortions that many suburban tobacconists vend, but it's pretty darn shameless. A veritable brass-pole slut.
Albeit a very fine product.
A pattern became apparent during the day. The stuffed monkey would start making nasty comments about some of the other roomies, and after a few minutes of arguing with him, I would send him to the corner, and head into the kitchen with a pipe for some peace and quiet.
What kind of nasty comments did he make? Really cruel ones. Judge for yourself.
About the sock-goat: "He smells all nanky, la."
About the small she-sheep: "Of course she's stupid - she's a pretty little girlie!"
About the froad: "Nasty green flippery guy."
About the hand-puppet spider: "Him evil - squash the bug."
About the little punk piglet: "Juicy pork!"
These are not the kind of comments a gentleman would make. Nor would a gentleman suggest that the froad has a gas problem, that the piglet could easily miss a limb - she has four ("more than enough for such a lazy creature!"), or that the sock-goat had no feelings because he was inferior and inbred. That, plus his insistence that he himself looked like Humphrey Bogart ("the world's handsomest Philippino"), and that Ms. Bruin had it in for him, would be enough to send any man into the kitchen. Often. With pipes and fruity tobacco.
Ten bowls full.
Big bowls.
Full of perfumy tobacco.
Don't blame me if the kitchen now reeks like a Portuguese dance hall.
It's all the monkey's fault.
-------------------------------
Savage Kitten lazed about reading during most of Sunday and Monday. And occasionally had a snack. Slices of melon, plus peaches, plums, and a large bag of sour-cream and onion chips. She was exceptionally lazy. Which is davka what Labor Day is all about.
I shan't even mention her crazy theory that it is okay to be slovenly on Labor Day because one is rejecting the tyranny of middle-class salary-prompted value-systems.
I have no idea what that means, but it is probably wrong. After all, she's a pretty little...........
Thursday, May 15, 2008
ERVA
Over on Dovbear's blog, a discussion is raging in which terms like 'erva', 'bisulta', 'Lot's daughters', 'pregnancy', 'fish', and 'first time' are being flung back and forth like soggy dishrags.
It is quite an intense and interesting conversation. As lomdishe disputations go. Being somewhat Talmudic, it tends toward dry.
[The conversation, that is. No details about the conditions of the ervos or fish in question are being revealed. The ervos are totally passive players. The fish are dead.]
My modest contribution was to gibber something about statistics and single-moms, compounded with three or four days of menses for Gentile women, a fortnight more-or-less for Frumme women.
[I assure you, that does not mean that Goyetes and Yiddenes are biologically different. If you really must speculate about this, think of mikvaos and bedikes.]
Lot's daughters, as you probably remember, got their dad insensate. Blind roaring. Fall down and throw up squiffy. Cabbage-looking.
* * *
Which got me wondering precisely how many pregnancies have intoxication as their primary cause.
It's a worthwhile question - the only way I'll ever get Savage Kitten pregnant is if I knock her out before knocking her up. She'd have to be lacquered sodden in order for it to happen.
Logistically, this would be easy. One teaspoon of whiskey in eight ounces of warm water guarantees her an undisturbed sleep. So imagine what two or three shots of Jameson would do.
[Savage Kitten is a petite Cantonese-American female. She neither drinks nor smokes, and doesn't dance on tabletops wearing a lampshade. I drink, I smoke, and I refuse to answer questions about lampshades - I do not know from lampshades. Savage Kitten is, in almost all ways, a proper 'ka-ting nuy' (woman of virtue and good upbringing), save for her blistering vocabulary in Toishanese (and the fact that she lives with a white guy). As my friends will tell you, I never use foul language at all ever and have a remarkably clean and polite mouth. Stop asking about the damn' lampshade.]
Strategically it would be a bad move. My life would get immeasurably more complicated if she were to end up pregnant. And less safe. Savage Kitten has done nearly twenty years of martial arts and won several medals. I cannot run very fast.
Ethically, it is out of the question. If I want that woman pregnant, I'll have to talk her into it. We've been together for close to two decades. So realistically, I should probably put it out of my mind. If I haven't managed to reyd her ein a mubereskeit by now, it ain't gonna happen.
Still, I cannot help but imagine what a brood of little Back-of-the-Hills would look like. Especially with an element of her in their genetic make-up. They'd probably look darling.
It is quite an intense and interesting conversation. As lomdishe disputations go. Being somewhat Talmudic, it tends toward dry.
[The conversation, that is. No details about the conditions of the ervos or fish in question are being revealed. The ervos are totally passive players. The fish are dead.]
My modest contribution was to gibber something about statistics and single-moms, compounded with three or four days of menses for Gentile women, a fortnight more-or-less for Frumme women.
[I assure you, that does not mean that Goyetes and Yiddenes are biologically different. If you really must speculate about this, think of mikvaos and bedikes.]
Lot's daughters, as you probably remember, got their dad insensate. Blind roaring. Fall down and throw up squiffy. Cabbage-looking.
* * *
Which got me wondering precisely how many pregnancies have intoxication as their primary cause.
It's a worthwhile question - the only way I'll ever get Savage Kitten pregnant is if I knock her out before knocking her up. She'd have to be lacquered sodden in order for it to happen.
Logistically, this would be easy. One teaspoon of whiskey in eight ounces of warm water guarantees her an undisturbed sleep. So imagine what two or three shots of Jameson would do.
[Savage Kitten is a petite Cantonese-American female. She neither drinks nor smokes, and doesn't dance on tabletops wearing a lampshade. I drink, I smoke, and I refuse to answer questions about lampshades - I do not know from lampshades. Savage Kitten is, in almost all ways, a proper 'ka-ting nuy' (woman of virtue and good upbringing), save for her blistering vocabulary in Toishanese (and the fact that she lives with a white guy). As my friends will tell you, I never use foul language at all ever and have a remarkably clean and polite mouth. Stop asking about the damn' lampshade.]
Strategically it would be a bad move. My life would get immeasurably more complicated if she were to end up pregnant. And less safe. Savage Kitten has done nearly twenty years of martial arts and won several medals. I cannot run very fast.
Ethically, it is out of the question. If I want that woman pregnant, I'll have to talk her into it. We've been together for close to two decades. So realistically, I should probably put it out of my mind. If I haven't managed to reyd her ein a mubereskeit by now, it ain't gonna happen.
Still, I cannot help but imagine what a brood of little Back-of-the-Hills would look like. Especially with an element of her in their genetic make-up. They'd probably look darling.
Monday, April 07, 2008
KIPPAH
Yesterday evening I studied over at a friend's house. I forgot to remove my keppel when I left. I was not reminded that I had it on till I reached the bar for a nightcap.
[I was already raising the Scotch to my lips when a fellow bar-patron noticed it.]
Let's just say that I was even more carefull not to make a fool of myself in public than normal. Please try to imagine what a monumental internal struggle that is.
[I was already raising the Scotch to my lips when a fellow bar-patron noticed it.]
Let's just say that I was even more carefull not to make a fool of myself in public than normal. Please try to imagine what a monumental internal struggle that is.
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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,...
