Fellow San Franciscan and blogger Steffy Chou has put up a post baldly telling people what she wants for her birthday.
It is quite the verbal portrait of an individualist, despite her claim that "ALL teenagers are alike". Perhaps so, but some are clearly far less alike than others.......
"Maybe another big book about Italian food? Or a copy of the Larouse Gastronomique in English."
The post is a remarkable document, as the people who read her blog have almost certainly never met her, and the people she knows personally probably have no clue that she blogs.
So it’s really an exercise in imagination, or wishful thinking.
EXAMPLE:
"Please do NOT get me anymore Hello Kitty stuff. When you’re not even five feet tall, Hello Kitty shit just makes you look infantile. Not feminine. It's kinda silly. Please think in terms of chocolate."
I have never met her.
But I think I can describe her pretty well.
“You are long-haired, and fairly small. You probably stick your tongue out at people often, mentally at least. You don't particularly like most adults, though there are some you get along with well - primarily if they aren't boring. None of the friends and relatives you described above are boring, though some are not entirely comfortable with your interests or obsessions; your burning curiosity sometimes gives them a feeling of disquiet - less so if they are older and have long been elsewhere in the world.”
For some reason I'm thinking of *CHOCOLATE* right now.
It’s probably a good thing that we’ve never met, as she would probably smack me fiercely in the face with a pie. Over the past year or so I’ve pushed several envelopes in the comments underneath her blog posts. Feisty teenagers do NOT react with equanimity when teased.
Still. Meeting a person like that would be fun. And despite the danger of ending up with sticky fruit-gloop all over my face and a broken jaw (say, what kind of pie WAS that?), it would probably be worth it. At the very least I could dare her to lick off the crumbs, after which I would buy her strawberry cake. She sounds ... nice.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Showing posts with label SCHOOLGIRLS. Show all posts
Showing posts with label SCHOOLGIRLS. Show all posts
Friday, September 10, 2010
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
EVEN MORE ABOUT YOUNG LADIES, AND A PREDILECTION REVEALED
Another of my readers reacted somewhat adversely to my recent postings about high-school girls, suggesting that titillation ends where daled amos begins. Alas, I seem to be hitting a sour note.
I clarified that unless the girl in question is a cute bespectacled Chinese-American brainiac with grown-up tastes, she will not interest me.
Chinese-American brainiacs doing trigonometry homework, however, are just so adorable!
ADORABLE!
My significant other, Savage Kitten, is an exciting woman. She got excellent grades for algebra and geometry and other branches of the mathematical arts when she was at Lowell High School.
She is, if you will, the standard by which I judge others.
When we first met twenty years ago I looked like a young man in his late twenties, she looked like someone in her mid-teens. She was already legally of drinking age at that point, and in college.
I now look like a 47 year-old geezer (more or less), and she..... looks like a 22 year-old.
A slim twenty-two year-old. With exceptionally slender hands. And a quirky wit. She's still sharp-tongued, like she was then. Sparky.
She installed her own computer, isn't scared of technology, and understands plumbing.
She is a very smart woman. Though she doesn't think so.
PERFECT WOMEN
I have described the ideal female in detail a few times on this blog.
Shorter than me, dark-haired, round-headed. Intelligent. Above all, intelligent.
In this post, she resembles Eric Cartman from South Park, both in vocabulary and burning hunger.
[http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2008/10/if-you-dont-shut-up-ill-kick-you-in.html]
Here, she is a noodle-snarfing temptress. With raven tresses.
[http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2007/10/enough-char-siu-noodle-soup-for-two.html]
Food seems a dominant theme. That's a very Cantonese thing. Life is food, living is food. Eating is fun, eating is comfort, eating is sensual, eating is utter ecstasy.
Unless good things to eat are part of the program, you might as well forget about the company of attractive women.
FETISH
Let me confess that I do indeed have an obsession.
I love watching bright young ladies eat. It's that single-minded concentration on aromas and textures, tiny fingers tightly clenching chopsticks, lips parted, a slight blush from hot-sauce, a fully involved focus, and the deliberate exclusion of all extraneous stimuli while enjoying all the yummy tasty juicy goodness - totally angelic.
They are totally adorable.
Eyes twixt bedroom-tempting and calculating. It's that wide-awake yet narrowed look. Curious, and piqued.
Is there more food? Does it taste good? Can I eat it?
Noodle soup. Steak semi-rare. Lobster. Oysters. Little egg tarts from one of the Chinatown bakeries. Chow mein. Cheung fun. Ho-yao ngau yuk. Steamed dumplings. Deep-fried snackypoos. Cake. Pork chop and rice with a fried egg on top. Milk-tea with tapioca pearls. Chocolate biscuits. Chicken soup with noodly bits. Clay pot prawn with butter and fish paste. Lamb curry broth. Shiitake mushrooms. Bearnaise sauce.
Ooooooooooooooh!!!!!
Yes. Talk dirty to me.
I salivate, achoti, I salivate meod.
I clarified that unless the girl in question is a cute bespectacled Chinese-American brainiac with grown-up tastes, she will not interest me.
Chinese-American brainiacs doing trigonometry homework, however, are just so adorable!
ADORABLE!
My significant other, Savage Kitten, is an exciting woman. She got excellent grades for algebra and geometry and other branches of the mathematical arts when she was at Lowell High School.
She is, if you will, the standard by which I judge others.
When we first met twenty years ago I looked like a young man in his late twenties, she looked like someone in her mid-teens. She was already legally of drinking age at that point, and in college.
I now look like a 47 year-old geezer (more or less), and she..... looks like a 22 year-old.
A slim twenty-two year-old. With exceptionally slender hands. And a quirky wit. She's still sharp-tongued, like she was then. Sparky.
She installed her own computer, isn't scared of technology, and understands plumbing.
She is a very smart woman. Though she doesn't think so.
PERFECT WOMEN
I have described the ideal female in detail a few times on this blog.
Shorter than me, dark-haired, round-headed. Intelligent. Above all, intelligent.
In this post, she resembles Eric Cartman from South Park, both in vocabulary and burning hunger.
[http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2008/10/if-you-dont-shut-up-ill-kick-you-in.html]
Here, she is a noodle-snarfing temptress. With raven tresses.
[http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2007/10/enough-char-siu-noodle-soup-for-two.html]
Food seems a dominant theme. That's a very Cantonese thing. Life is food, living is food. Eating is fun, eating is comfort, eating is sensual, eating is utter ecstasy.
Unless good things to eat are part of the program, you might as well forget about the company of attractive women.
FETISH
Let me confess that I do indeed have an obsession.
I love watching bright young ladies eat. It's that single-minded concentration on aromas and textures, tiny fingers tightly clenching chopsticks, lips parted, a slight blush from hot-sauce, a fully involved focus, and the deliberate exclusion of all extraneous stimuli while enjoying all the yummy tasty juicy goodness - totally angelic.
They are totally adorable.
Eyes twixt bedroom-tempting and calculating. It's that wide-awake yet narrowed look. Curious, and piqued.
Is there more food? Does it taste good? Can I eat it?
Noodle soup. Steak semi-rare. Lobster. Oysters. Little egg tarts from one of the Chinatown bakeries. Chow mein. Cheung fun. Ho-yao ngau yuk. Steamed dumplings. Deep-fried snackypoos. Cake. Pork chop and rice with a fried egg on top. Milk-tea with tapioca pearls. Chocolate biscuits. Chicken soup with noodly bits. Clay pot prawn with butter and fish paste. Lamb curry broth. Shiitake mushrooms. Bearnaise sauce.
Ooooooooooooooh!!!!!
Yes. Talk dirty to me.
I salivate, achoti, I salivate meod.
Friday, December 18, 2009
HIGH SCHOOL GIRLS
I have always had a soft spot for high-school girls.
Actually, I need to clarify that statement.
I have always had a soft spot for the innocence that high-school girls used to represent. Today's teenage females can seldom be called 'innocent'. Not with alcohol, pot, casual sex, too much make-up, and trollop clothing.
They are still innocent, but it just doesn't seem that way.
Yes, call me an old fart.
Back in MY day, girls still dressed to be presentable, hardly engaged in any shenanigans (many intended to remain virgins till the day they went away to college), and when they smoked or drank, they were very discrete and did so with that delightful sense of surreptitious depravity - the pleasure of getting away with something of which their parents would disapprove.
The trick was pretending non-lung-cancerous sobriety when they came home at nine, hi mom, hi dad, and walking up the stairs to their room in complete control.
If early of an evening you saw a little miss down a pot of coffee and furiously chewing gum, you knew what was going to happen. She was going home. Nine o'clock.
Quite the well-brought up young lady. How sweet.
I suspect that the parents were not fooled, but they appreciated the effort.
Nothing looks so delicious as a young girl with cheeks flushed from too much hot coffee consumed too fast. That rosy hopped to the gills on caffeine blush, and the over-stimulated sparkle to the eyes - can there be anything quite so lovely?
The enchanting after-image of the nine o'clock subterfugitive made the rest of the evening seem anti-climactic.
And you looked forward to catching another glimpse of her, perhaps at a more approachable age, having progressed from mere bud to full bloom.
I guess the equivalent for the younger generation is seeing the nipple ring that accidentally ripped the buttons off her tarty little blouse while she was shaking her booty to pimp-rap ........ but it just isn't the same.
LISTEN UP, BITCHES!
Trash talk, telling your friends that you would SO blow the class delinquent, and passing packs of condoms back and forth on the bus seriously detracts from your image.
[Oh, and that cell-phone video of you having drunken truth-or-dare sex in the parking lot really does NOT need to be shown to your classmates. It will be on the internet soon enough, where they can enjoy it as often as they want and forward it to other friends with rude comments.]
There is a great difference between the pretense of propriety and the blatant exhibitionist vulgarity of expressing a standard-format uniquely hip creative individuality.
Could you at least TRY to act like a lady?
You know, normal shoes, a clean opaque shirt that covers your abdomen, pants that fit, and, other than a discrete application of lipstick, no make-up or nail polish.
Especially no blue or black nail polish.
Also, speak properly, and avoid foul language.
It might please your parents - not that that means much to you - but all of us dirty old men certainly will appreciate it.
If you stop looking like a five-dollar hooker, we will likely invite you out to dinner.
Our treat. Nice restaurant.
We'll even make sure you get home safely by nine.
Actually, I need to clarify that statement.
I have always had a soft spot for the innocence that high-school girls used to represent. Today's teenage females can seldom be called 'innocent'. Not with alcohol, pot, casual sex, too much make-up, and trollop clothing.
They are still innocent, but it just doesn't seem that way.
Yes, call me an old fart.
Back in MY day, girls still dressed to be presentable, hardly engaged in any shenanigans (many intended to remain virgins till the day they went away to college), and when they smoked or drank, they were very discrete and did so with that delightful sense of surreptitious depravity - the pleasure of getting away with something of which their parents would disapprove.
The trick was pretending non-lung-cancerous sobriety when they came home at nine, hi mom, hi dad, and walking up the stairs to their room in complete control.
If early of an evening you saw a little miss down a pot of coffee and furiously chewing gum, you knew what was going to happen. She was going home. Nine o'clock.
Quite the well-brought up young lady. How sweet.
I suspect that the parents were not fooled, but they appreciated the effort.
Nothing looks so delicious as a young girl with cheeks flushed from too much hot coffee consumed too fast. That rosy hopped to the gills on caffeine blush, and the over-stimulated sparkle to the eyes - can there be anything quite so lovely?
The enchanting after-image of the nine o'clock subterfugitive made the rest of the evening seem anti-climactic.
And you looked forward to catching another glimpse of her, perhaps at a more approachable age, having progressed from mere bud to full bloom.
I guess the equivalent for the younger generation is seeing the nipple ring that accidentally ripped the buttons off her tarty little blouse while she was shaking her booty to pimp-rap ........ but it just isn't the same.
LISTEN UP, BITCHES!
Trash talk, telling your friends that you would SO blow the class delinquent, and passing packs of condoms back and forth on the bus seriously detracts from your image.
[Oh, and that cell-phone video of you having drunken truth-or-dare sex in the parking lot really does NOT need to be shown to your classmates. It will be on the internet soon enough, where they can enjoy it as often as they want and forward it to other friends with rude comments.]
There is a great difference between the pretense of propriety and the blatant exhibitionist vulgarity of expressing a standard-format uniquely hip creative individuality.
Could you at least TRY to act like a lady?
You know, normal shoes, a clean opaque shirt that covers your abdomen, pants that fit, and, other than a discrete application of lipstick, no make-up or nail polish.
Especially no blue or black nail polish.
Also, speak properly, and avoid foul language.
It might please your parents - not that that means much to you - but all of us dirty old men certainly will appreciate it.
If you stop looking like a five-dollar hooker, we will likely invite you out to dinner.
Our treat. Nice restaurant.
We'll even make sure you get home safely by nine.
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
TALKING ABOUT SEX WITH TEENAGERS
Over cocktails, a friend mentioned that he has to give his children 'the talk'. You know, 'that one'...., the one about the birds and the bees. He is NOT looking forward to it.
I can sympathize with his trepidation.
I remember my father's version of 'the talk'. It was shortened considerably by the fact that both of us boys in theory already knew all about human reproduction by the time we were nine years old (it was the practical aspects with which we had no experience).
My father's version of the talk was, accordingly, simple.
"Always keep yourself clean, especially your privates - some nice young thing might stick her tongue down there."
At this point, my brother turned green and ran from the room making retching sounds.
When he returned, the talk resumed:
"When you masturbate, hair grows on the palms of your hands."
This second datum, delivered with a straight face, had the desired effect.
Again my brother left the room.
That was it. Simple.
[You could expand it by adding in the advice he gave me when my pipe-smoking had been discovered: "Stay away from the perfumed crap; good tobacco shouldn't smell like a Turkish cat house".]
GIRLS!
My friend, on the other hand, is dealing with a darker and more complex world. He has daughters.
And there is no guarantee that their school has touched upon human reproduction.
I doubt that I am the best person to ask for advice. Never the less.
THE TALK
Girls, you aren't supposed to have sex. Yet you are reaching the age when you may think about it.
There are five rules that all boil down to 'safe sex'.
Avoid getting pregnant, avoid getting infected, avoid getting abused, avoid getting talked about, avoid getting found out.
The best method for achieving all of these aims is abstinence, but let's be realistic.
PREGNANCY
Know about your body and about basic biology - pregnancy is most likely to ensue during your fertile period, which starts more or less nine or ten days after the beginning of the menses, and continues till retirement age, errrrm, I mean until a few days before the next period. Fercrapessakes, read up on it!
Condoms are the best method of avoiding the transfer of sperm other than abstinence, the pill goes a long way towards preventing fertilization, but has side effects, and is contra-indicated in many cases.
INFECTION
Condoms help prevent infections, but are NOT guaranteed. Consequently you must be extremely careful in your choice of partners. Not all diseases are curable, many have long incubation periods. Sexually Transmitted Diseases are a fascinating subject, please read all about it.
A clean, intelligent, kind, and well-behaved person (good manners, morals, and ethics) is probably far less likely to be the Typhoid Mary of the clap than the captain of the football team or the class delinquent. Evenso, assume that most teenage boys are carriers of something vile, and you probably won't be far wrong.
AIDS is incurable.
ABUSE
Sports jocks are oafs. You should not associate with boys who are selfish or domineering.
If a boy with whom you are in a relationship hits you or verbally abuses you, cripple the bastard. Preferably before things have gone any further than holding hands.
Your mom and dad are here to bail you out if you get arrested.
REPUTATION
Boys only want one thing. Whether or not they get it, they will talk about it. Some of them will talk trash and name names when they haven't even gotten within a mile of it. On the other hand, some boys go nuts if they don't or no longer get it. At which point the entire school will know about it. Consequently there are many boys whom you must avoid.
Girls also talk trash, and some will gladly make another girl out for slut.
Choose whom you associate with carefully.
Sex is like net ninety terms; once it has been put on the table by the morons in the sales department, it just will not go away.
If anybody ever calls you a slut, break their jaw.
CAUTION
If you have a relationship, no one needs to hear about it. Not your classmates, not the neighbors, not your relatives. If you cannot guarantee complete discretion and silence (in other words, don't get pregnant, don't get infected, don't get abused, don't get talked about, don't get found out), don't even take the risk. Ninety percent of the foregoing about personal association and common sense choices applies here as well.
Avoid football players, bullies, delinquents, or trash talkers. Clowns too.
BUT BEYOND THAT...
The safest partner is someone who knows exactly what is at stake and what both of you have to loose. This means an intelligent, well-mannered, insightful, and considerate person. Someone who is likely to keep confidences and secrets, and will not embarrass you, or weasel-out on you.
Which, almost by definition, is someone beyond their teenage years who is not into sports. A mature individual, like an engineer or an accountant, heaven forbid!
There are risks.
So you should probably wait until you're eighteen before you jump into the sack with anyone. Better yet, wait until you've graduated college.
A doctorate. At least a Masters Degree.
-----------------------------------------------------
AFTERWORD
One might get the impression from the foregoing that sex should be avoided, being more trouble than it's worth. That is by no means correct.
I'm sure my readers realize that sex is as good as food. But it should NOT be shared with the world. Whether you like tight frilly panties (still occupied, OR nicely laundered), constricting naughty garments, or even unguents, heating lotions, and a black tarpaulin, go ahead and do your thing.
Just don't be messy about it, get to know the person first, and for heavens sakes keep it private.
If you live at home, don't forget to wash your sheets.
Oh and by the way - smoking is bad. Stay away from tobacco.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I can sympathize with his trepidation.
I remember my father's version of 'the talk'. It was shortened considerably by the fact that both of us boys in theory already knew all about human reproduction by the time we were nine years old (it was the practical aspects with which we had no experience).
My father's version of the talk was, accordingly, simple.
"Always keep yourself clean, especially your privates - some nice young thing might stick her tongue down there."
At this point, my brother turned green and ran from the room making retching sounds.
When he returned, the talk resumed:
"When you masturbate, hair grows on the palms of your hands."
This second datum, delivered with a straight face, had the desired effect.
Again my brother left the room.
That was it. Simple.
[You could expand it by adding in the advice he gave me when my pipe-smoking had been discovered: "Stay away from the perfumed crap; good tobacco shouldn't smell like a Turkish cat house".]
GIRLS!
My friend, on the other hand, is dealing with a darker and more complex world. He has daughters.
And there is no guarantee that their school has touched upon human reproduction.
I doubt that I am the best person to ask for advice. Never the less.
THE TALK
Girls, you aren't supposed to have sex. Yet you are reaching the age when you may think about it.
There are five rules that all boil down to 'safe sex'.
Avoid getting pregnant, avoid getting infected, avoid getting abused, avoid getting talked about, avoid getting found out.
The best method for achieving all of these aims is abstinence, but let's be realistic.
PREGNANCY
Know about your body and about basic biology - pregnancy is most likely to ensue during your fertile period, which starts more or less nine or ten days after the beginning of the menses, and continues till retirement age, errrrm, I mean until a few days before the next period. Fercrapessakes, read up on it!
Condoms are the best method of avoiding the transfer of sperm other than abstinence, the pill goes a long way towards preventing fertilization, but has side effects, and is contra-indicated in many cases.
INFECTION
Condoms help prevent infections, but are NOT guaranteed. Consequently you must be extremely careful in your choice of partners. Not all diseases are curable, many have long incubation periods. Sexually Transmitted Diseases are a fascinating subject, please read all about it.
A clean, intelligent, kind, and well-behaved person (good manners, morals, and ethics) is probably far less likely to be the Typhoid Mary of the clap than the captain of the football team or the class delinquent. Evenso, assume that most teenage boys are carriers of something vile, and you probably won't be far wrong.
AIDS is incurable.
ABUSE
Sports jocks are oafs. You should not associate with boys who are selfish or domineering.
If a boy with whom you are in a relationship hits you or verbally abuses you, cripple the bastard. Preferably before things have gone any further than holding hands.
Your mom and dad are here to bail you out if you get arrested.
REPUTATION
Boys only want one thing. Whether or not they get it, they will talk about it. Some of them will talk trash and name names when they haven't even gotten within a mile of it. On the other hand, some boys go nuts if they don't or no longer get it. At which point the entire school will know about it. Consequently there are many boys whom you must avoid.
Girls also talk trash, and some will gladly make another girl out for slut.
Choose whom you associate with carefully.
Sex is like net ninety terms; once it has been put on the table by the morons in the sales department, it just will not go away.
If anybody ever calls you a slut, break their jaw.
CAUTION
If you have a relationship, no one needs to hear about it. Not your classmates, not the neighbors, not your relatives. If you cannot guarantee complete discretion and silence (in other words, don't get pregnant, don't get infected, don't get abused, don't get talked about, don't get found out), don't even take the risk. Ninety percent of the foregoing about personal association and common sense choices applies here as well.
Avoid football players, bullies, delinquents, or trash talkers. Clowns too.
BUT BEYOND THAT...
The safest partner is someone who knows exactly what is at stake and what both of you have to loose. This means an intelligent, well-mannered, insightful, and considerate person. Someone who is likely to keep confidences and secrets, and will not embarrass you, or weasel-out on you.
Which, almost by definition, is someone beyond their teenage years who is not into sports. A mature individual, like an engineer or an accountant, heaven forbid!
There are risks.
So you should probably wait until you're eighteen before you jump into the sack with anyone. Better yet, wait until you've graduated college.
A doctorate. At least a Masters Degree.
-----------------------------------------------------
AFTERWORD
One might get the impression from the foregoing that sex should be avoided, being more trouble than it's worth. That is by no means correct.
I'm sure my readers realize that sex is as good as food. But it should NOT be shared with the world. Whether you like tight frilly panties (still occupied, OR nicely laundered), constricting naughty garments, or even unguents, heating lotions, and a black tarpaulin, go ahead and do your thing.
Just don't be messy about it, get to know the person first, and for heavens sakes keep it private.
If you live at home, don't forget to wash your sheets.
Oh and by the way - smoking is bad. Stay away from tobacco.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, November 16, 2009
ASSAULTED BY TEENAGE GIRLS
Balabusta in Blue Jeans writes about having to supervise the girls' locker room. If you ever thought of that as being like a little slice of heaven, you are mistaken.
It is war. Combat duty, and horrors beyond belief.
Plus skin goo.
QUOTE:
"They worry about their arms, and their legs. They have to be completely moisturized at all times..."
END QUOTE.
SOURCE:
http://balabustabluejeans.blogspot.com/2009/11/oceans-of-lotions.html
Okay, that doesn't sound too bad at all.
I'll be the first to admit that high-school girls should, under ideal circumstances, be soft and smooth to the touch.
QUOTE:
"They run around screaming "Does anyone have lotion?"
END QUOTE.
Screaming? Girls do not scream. There's something wrong if they're screaming.
QUOTE:
"Then, just in case they might not smell fruity-floral enough, they pull whole bottles of body spray or cologne out of their lockers, and spritz each other until the whole place smells like Bath and Bodyworks after a bad earthquake."
END QUOTE.
[Read BBJ's blog here: http://balabustabluejeans.blogspot.com/ ]
DAMP AND SWEET-SMELLING!
Good freakin' heavens! When I was a kid, back before Noah set sail on his round-the-world voyage, there were no spritzes and body lotions!
Just stuff in a brown glass bottle from the chemist.
With a squirt-attachment at the top.
This is war, soldier, and don't you forget it!
My dad and I would irritate the spit out of my severe older brother by flamboyantly and extravegantly using a hand-lotion(!) in the middle of winter for our chapped skin. We would squeeze some out, then sensually slide it up and down our fingers, restoring to health the delicate masculine membranes that had been exposed to the harsh Dutch climate, softly and smoothly rubbing it into the cracked and calloused areas. Mmmmmmm!
Hand lotion - it was the ONLY lotion available at the local stores. And it was pink, and faintly perfumed.
VERY FEMMY!
Such unmanly decadence disgusted Tobias.
He cringed at the depravity thus displayed by his father and his effete younger brother.
The local high school girls used no lotions. No lip balm. No spritzed spray. No expensive oils and unguents. No eye liner. No skin creme. No lipstick even, most of the time. Maybe a very subtle touch of eye-shadow if they were feeling daring - after school!
And they looked radiant!
Like bowls overflowing with peaches and cream. Strawberries, apricots, cherries, and tart little apples pearled with dew.
Ashy. Hmmpph!
No one smelled fruity floral then either. Just regular green soap, alleviated perhaps by the refreshing fragrance of dark rolling tobaccos.
Perfume and factory-mades are for losers.
Northern California, such a rotten place.
So self-indulgent, so Roman. Feh!
Noah, saddle up the Ark again - we're leaving!
It is war. Combat duty, and horrors beyond belief.
Plus skin goo.
QUOTE:
"They worry about their arms, and their legs. They have to be completely moisturized at all times..."
END QUOTE.
SOURCE:
http://balabustabluejeans.blogspot.com/2009/11/oceans-of-lotions.html
Okay, that doesn't sound too bad at all.
I'll be the first to admit that high-school girls should, under ideal circumstances, be soft and smooth to the touch.
QUOTE:
"They run around screaming "Does anyone have lotion?"
END QUOTE.
Screaming? Girls do not scream. There's something wrong if they're screaming.
QUOTE:
"Then, just in case they might not smell fruity-floral enough, they pull whole bottles of body spray or cologne out of their lockers, and spritz each other until the whole place smells like Bath and Bodyworks after a bad earthquake."
END QUOTE.
[Read BBJ's blog here: http://balabustabluejeans.blogspot.com/ ]
DAMP AND SWEET-SMELLING!
Good freakin' heavens! When I was a kid, back before Noah set sail on his round-the-world voyage, there were no spritzes and body lotions!
Just stuff in a brown glass bottle from the chemist.
With a squirt-attachment at the top.
This is war, soldier, and don't you forget it!
My dad and I would irritate the spit out of my severe older brother by flamboyantly and extravegantly using a hand-lotion(!) in the middle of winter for our chapped skin. We would squeeze some out, then sensually slide it up and down our fingers, restoring to health the delicate masculine membranes that had been exposed to the harsh Dutch climate, softly and smoothly rubbing it into the cracked and calloused areas. Mmmmmmm!
Hand lotion - it was the ONLY lotion available at the local stores. And it was pink, and faintly perfumed.
VERY FEMMY!
Such unmanly decadence disgusted Tobias.
He cringed at the depravity thus displayed by his father and his effete younger brother.
The local high school girls used no lotions. No lip balm. No spritzed spray. No expensive oils and unguents. No eye liner. No skin creme. No lipstick even, most of the time. Maybe a very subtle touch of eye-shadow if they were feeling daring - after school!
And they looked radiant!
Like bowls overflowing with peaches and cream. Strawberries, apricots, cherries, and tart little apples pearled with dew.
Ashy. Hmmpph!
No one smelled fruity floral then either. Just regular green soap, alleviated perhaps by the refreshing fragrance of dark rolling tobaccos.
Perfume and factory-mades are for losers.
Northern California, such a rotten place.
So self-indulgent, so Roman. Feh!
Noah, saddle up the Ark again - we're leaving!
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
PARSEE PERVERSION & TEENAGE TERROR
I am flabbergasted at the conversation currently on-going between Snooky Wong and Grant Patel. First of all, I am flabbergasted that they are even having a conversation, as most of the time they simply spar and insult each other. Grant delights in crude though marginally clean sexual innuendo - nothing actionable, he is far too canny a lawyer for that - and Snooky steams and blows up regularly in his direction because of it.
Grant is a distinctly degenerate Parsee lawyer in his fifties, who is more than passing literate.
Grant's blog: http://grantpatel.blogspot.com/
Snooky is a teenage Cantonese-American girl with a broad spectrum of interests, and quite probably a Lowell High School student.
Snooky's blog: http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/
You can always count on Lowell girls to shatter praeconceptions. They are a brainy bunch.
Grant and Snooky appear to be arguing about the male regenerative organ. Specifically, the male regenerative organ of Richard Becker, possibly also the praedilections of mister Becker and his handy goon Forest Schmidt. Grant and Snooky accuse each other of being obsessed.
See this post by Snooky:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2009/05/grant-patel-waxes-filthily-verbose.html
And this post by Grant:
http://grantpatel.blogspot.com/2009/05/richard-becker-is-entirely-too-little.html
A PECULIAR SUBJECT
From my vantage point, it looks like they are both indeed obsessed. Though not with whatever fleshy appendage Richard Becker may or may not have within the folds of his garments. They are obsessed with shouting at each other. Richard Becker's miniscule manhood is a pretext, they have no actual interest in his organ, but they are happily whacking each other over the head with it. Rhetorically, of course.
While I wholeheartedly approve of their well-expressed loathing for Richard Becker and his radical thugs, I do wish they would not use mister Becker's handicap as an excuse. Becker can be rightly criticized on any number of grounds. His inadequacy, whether real or merely rumoured, should not be the point. And it is disturbing to me that a teenage girl should write so much about something sexual.
[Grant writing about it at great length is entirely unsurprising, however.]
Please, miss Wong and mister Patel, stop talking about Richard Becker's tiny you-know-what. Write about something else. Find some other subject that you have in common to wage war over.
Shrimp, perhaps?
Grant is a distinctly degenerate Parsee lawyer in his fifties, who is more than passing literate.
Grant's blog: http://grantpatel.blogspot.com/
Snooky is a teenage Cantonese-American girl with a broad spectrum of interests, and quite probably a Lowell High School student.
Snooky's blog: http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/
You can always count on Lowell girls to shatter praeconceptions. They are a brainy bunch.
Grant and Snooky appear to be arguing about the male regenerative organ. Specifically, the male regenerative organ of Richard Becker, possibly also the praedilections of mister Becker and his handy goon Forest Schmidt. Grant and Snooky accuse each other of being obsessed.
See this post by Snooky:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2009/05/grant-patel-waxes-filthily-verbose.html
And this post by Grant:
http://grantpatel.blogspot.com/2009/05/richard-becker-is-entirely-too-little.html
A PECULIAR SUBJECT
From my vantage point, it looks like they are both indeed obsessed. Though not with whatever fleshy appendage Richard Becker may or may not have within the folds of his garments. They are obsessed with shouting at each other. Richard Becker's miniscule manhood is a pretext, they have no actual interest in his organ, but they are happily whacking each other over the head with it. Rhetorically, of course.
While I wholeheartedly approve of their well-expressed loathing for Richard Becker and his radical thugs, I do wish they would not use mister Becker's handicap as an excuse. Becker can be rightly criticized on any number of grounds. His inadequacy, whether real or merely rumoured, should not be the point. And it is disturbing to me that a teenage girl should write so much about something sexual.
[Grant writing about it at great length is entirely unsurprising, however.]
Please, miss Wong and mister Patel, stop talking about Richard Becker's tiny you-know-what. Write about something else. Find some other subject that you have in common to wage war over.
Shrimp, perhaps?
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
OLIE BOLLEN - SWEET DOUGH, POWDERED SUGAR, HOT FAT
About a week ago a mailinglist of which I am a subscriber was startled out of its collective slumber by a desperate wake-up call. One of the members had a crisis.
A gentleman named A, who is married to J, requested a recipe for Oliebollen ('oil balls'). That being one of the few things that his spouse liked in the Netherlands, and their anniversary coming up, led him to his e-plea.
Naturally, I was somewhat distressed to find out that an American woman wasn't entirely enchanted by the Dutch and their marvelous cuisine (what, you didn't know?), but I papered over my disappointment at her disappointment, and provided the recipe.
OLIE BOLLEN
4 (four) Cups white flour.
1.75 (one and three quarters) Cups warm (scalded) milk.
3 (three) TBS Sugar.
3 (three) Eggs.
1 (one) TBS oil.
1 (one) Tsp. Salt.
1 (one) TBS active yeast.
1.5 (one point five) cups chopped raisins.
A few drops vanilla essence, a little fresh orange or lemon zest.
Plus oil for deep-frying and powdered sugar for dusting.
Proof the yeast in the milk, with one tablespoon of the sugar dissolved therein (meaning: stir sugar and yeast into the warm milk, and let the yeast foam up and become all nice and active again).
Mix all other ingredients, and add the yeasted milk gradually after it has foamed. Mix well. Cover with a damp cloth, put in a warm place, and let the batter sit two hours or more till doubled in size.
Heat the oil for frying to 375 - 400 degrees. Drop spoonfuls of the batter into the hot oil (use a second spoon to push the batter off the first). Fry golden, remove from oil when done, drain on papertowels, and dust with powdered sugar.
Note I: A teaspoon of cinnamon can be added to the batter, or to the
powdered sugar.
Note II: If the milk is too hot for you to put your finger into,
it is too hot for the yeast. Better wait a moment - you don't want to kill the yeast, do you?
Note III: Leave plenty of space in the deep-fryer or the cauldron
- there is nothing worse than bliksems hot oil splashing up or boiling over.
Note IV: Some folks may want to avoid lactose and or gluten. Sorry, this recipe is not for you. Get real.
These things are usually available from stands of dubious cleanliness outside trainstations and in public squares from end of October through the beginning of March.
When exiting the train station in Eindhoven into the biting cold wind of late autumn, on the side where all the regional buses await passengers, it is sheer heaven to purchase a fresh bag of these, hot from the deep fat, and inhale them one after another, the powdered sugar getting up one's nose and all over one's clothes, fingers and lips tingling from the contrast with the frigid air.
The first time I went back for a visit, nearly nineteen years ago, there were some Cantonese girls standing by the fry-stand doing the same thing, and I surreptitiously listened in on their conversation. They were all students of the Chinese grammar school in the city, heading back to the villages in the Kempen where their folks ran restaurants. Their parents would have utterly disapproved of the expenditure of precious funds on hot dough (though, as children themselves, they had probably done exactly the same thing in Naam Hoi, Suen Tak, or Poon Yip). How delicious the guilty delight of shared funds invested in toasty comfort, the powdered sugar on their faces betraying their decadent spendthrifting, or perhaps even that all five had been snorting mega-lines of cocaine before going home!
Chinese-accented Dutch, Dutch-accented Chinese, and reverent little moans of pleasure as each hot airy doughpuff disappeared into a greedy mouth. Chan-hai ho sik! Sheer heaven.
I am not surprised that A's wife J fondly remembers oliebollen. It is also one of my more golden memories of the Netherlands.
As long as the Dutch do not speak, but simply feed me oliebollen, I should be happy there.
A gentleman named A, who is married to J, requested a recipe for Oliebollen ('oil balls'). That being one of the few things that his spouse liked in the Netherlands, and their anniversary coming up, led him to his e-plea.
Naturally, I was somewhat distressed to find out that an American woman wasn't entirely enchanted by the Dutch and their marvelous cuisine (what, you didn't know?), but I papered over my disappointment at her disappointment, and provided the recipe.
OLIE BOLLEN
4 (four) Cups white flour.
1.75 (one and three quarters) Cups warm (scalded) milk.
3 (three) TBS Sugar.
3 (three) Eggs.
1 (one) TBS oil.
1 (one) Tsp. Salt.
1 (one) TBS active yeast.
1.5 (one point five) cups chopped raisins.
A few drops vanilla essence, a little fresh orange or lemon zest.
Plus oil for deep-frying and powdered sugar for dusting.
Proof the yeast in the milk, with one tablespoon of the sugar dissolved therein (meaning: stir sugar and yeast into the warm milk, and let the yeast foam up and become all nice and active again).
Mix all other ingredients, and add the yeasted milk gradually after it has foamed. Mix well. Cover with a damp cloth, put in a warm place, and let the batter sit two hours or more till doubled in size.
Heat the oil for frying to 375 - 400 degrees. Drop spoonfuls of the batter into the hot oil (use a second spoon to push the batter off the first). Fry golden, remove from oil when done, drain on papertowels, and dust with powdered sugar.
Note I: A teaspoon of cinnamon can be added to the batter, or to the
powdered sugar.
Note II: If the milk is too hot for you to put your finger into,
it is too hot for the yeast. Better wait a moment - you don't want to kill the yeast, do you?
Note III: Leave plenty of space in the deep-fryer or the cauldron
- there is nothing worse than bliksems hot oil splashing up or boiling over.
Note IV: Some folks may want to avoid lactose and or gluten. Sorry, this recipe is not for you. Get real.
These things are usually available from stands of dubious cleanliness outside trainstations and in public squares from end of October through the beginning of March.
When exiting the train station in Eindhoven into the biting cold wind of late autumn, on the side where all the regional buses await passengers, it is sheer heaven to purchase a fresh bag of these, hot from the deep fat, and inhale them one after another, the powdered sugar getting up one's nose and all over one's clothes, fingers and lips tingling from the contrast with the frigid air.
The first time I went back for a visit, nearly nineteen years ago, there were some Cantonese girls standing by the fry-stand doing the same thing, and I surreptitiously listened in on their conversation. They were all students of the Chinese grammar school in the city, heading back to the villages in the Kempen where their folks ran restaurants. Their parents would have utterly disapproved of the expenditure of precious funds on hot dough (though, as children themselves, they had probably done exactly the same thing in Naam Hoi, Suen Tak, or Poon Yip). How delicious the guilty delight of shared funds invested in toasty comfort, the powdered sugar on their faces betraying their decadent spendthrifting, or perhaps even that all five had been snorting mega-lines of cocaine before going home!
Chinese-accented Dutch, Dutch-accented Chinese, and reverent little moans of pleasure as each hot airy doughpuff disappeared into a greedy mouth. Chan-hai ho sik! Sheer heaven.
I am not surprised that A's wife J fondly remembers oliebollen. It is also one of my more golden memories of the Netherlands.
As long as the Dutch do not speak, but simply feed me oliebollen, I should be happy there.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
DEATH BY NOODLES - TAMING THE SAVAGE BEAST
Fellow San Franciscan blogger Snooky Wong, also known as Death By Noodles, has with great forbearance put up with the suggestive and sometimes crude comments of Grant Patel.
[Her blog: http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/]
For several weeks, the intemperate Patel has lurked in the comments on her blog, leaving his verbal footprints under nearly every post. He has a fetish, and is almost stalker-like in his attentions. And despite discouragement, he proved impossible to shake, impervious to criticism, and deaf to blandishments. He was persistent, and utterly unmoved.
But no longer. She got him good.
Please view Snooky's latest post, in which she skewers the ungentle Patel.
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2009/01/panties.html
She takes him to task for his meshune and perverse annotations, then provides the intemperate Patel with four tempting links for his unseemly fetish: 'Her Room Lingerie', 'Petite Lingerie', 'Hello Kitty Lingerie', and 'Dreaming of Lingerie'.
The first three links are to stores that sell brassieres and panties, among many other wonderful things. The fourth link takes the reader (the Patel in question) directly to a site discussing erectile dysfunction.
It looks like poor mr. Patel did not appreciate the gentle humour, and is smarting from the jab.
My regular readers will not be surprised to discover that I have been a reader of ms. Wong's blog from nearly the beginning. And have enjoyed her occasional quirky insights.
[The idea of a fellow blogger being a petite Cantonese girl in the same city as oneself is rather delicious, don't you agree?]
Earlier this month, Death By Noodles took issue with some of the protests on the streets of San Francisco.
Here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2009/01/angry-people-tribes-with-flags.html
And here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2009/01/more-angry-people.html
Significant quote from the second post:
"But some of the older men on the blue and white flag side looked nice. Pinker, too.
They are cute with their little colored beanies."
A better argument for wearing a kippah can scarce be found.
That day I wore no yarmulke, alas, and in consequence I fear she did not notice me at all. I was invisible.
She may have been the charming young lady with a doggie who sat a little distance off on our side of the street. But I will probably never know.
Next time, a keppel. It is necessary.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[Her blog: http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/]
For several weeks, the intemperate Patel has lurked in the comments on her blog, leaving his verbal footprints under nearly every post. He has a fetish, and is almost stalker-like in his attentions. And despite discouragement, he proved impossible to shake, impervious to criticism, and deaf to blandishments. He was persistent, and utterly unmoved.
But no longer. She got him good.
Please view Snooky's latest post, in which she skewers the ungentle Patel.
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2009/01/panties.html
She takes him to task for his meshune and perverse annotations, then provides the intemperate Patel with four tempting links for his unseemly fetish: 'Her Room Lingerie', 'Petite Lingerie', 'Hello Kitty Lingerie', and 'Dreaming of Lingerie'.
The first three links are to stores that sell brassieres and panties, among many other wonderful things. The fourth link takes the reader (the Patel in question) directly to a site discussing erectile dysfunction.
It looks like poor mr. Patel did not appreciate the gentle humour, and is smarting from the jab.
My regular readers will not be surprised to discover that I have been a reader of ms. Wong's blog from nearly the beginning. And have enjoyed her occasional quirky insights.
[The idea of a fellow blogger being a petite Cantonese girl in the same city as oneself is rather delicious, don't you agree?]
Earlier this month, Death By Noodles took issue with some of the protests on the streets of San Francisco.
Here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2009/01/angry-people-tribes-with-flags.html
And here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2009/01/more-angry-people.html
Significant quote from the second post:
"But some of the older men on the blue and white flag side looked nice. Pinker, too.
They are cute with their little colored beanies."
A better argument for wearing a kippah can scarce be found.
That day I wore no yarmulke, alas, and in consequence I fear she did not notice me at all. I was invisible.
She may have been the charming young lady with a doggie who sat a little distance off on our side of the street. But I will probably never know.
Next time, a keppel. It is necessary.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, December 26, 2008
THE CANTONESE-AMERICAN FEMALE
Rabbosai, I wish to present, for your general education, a skewed and biased portrait of the Cantonese-American Female.
Having lived with one such for nearly two decades, and having observed the genus for longer than that, I can claim to be an authority on the subject.
There are several characteristics by which the Cantonese-American Female can be recognized.
BOOKS
Cantonese-American Females like literature. Years ago Savage Kitten would lie on the bed laughing maniacally while reading Barbara Cartland and other romance authors. Then she became fascinated with greedy bitches, and read everything she could lay her hands on about Nancy Reagan, Imelda Marcos, and Hollywood gold-diggers. At present she is obsessed with sleazy royal sex - Caroline of Brunswick's lack of hygiene (her petticoats ponged - she changed them once a year whether necessary or not), Henry the Eighth's syphilitic leg-sore (which oozed, stank, and frightened his mistresses), Barbara Villiers (later Duchess of Cleveland) and her raids on the royal treasury as well as the spur of the moment rape of an amazingly limber male carnival performer while she was still the king's mistress (and still married to Roger Palmer, who became Baron of Limerick and Earl of Castlemaine because of her services).
Reading about crazy rich white people is great entertainment.
COUNTING
Unlike many of the modern generation, the typical Cantonese-American Female has a keenly honed mathematical ability. She is able to give exact change, figure out the sales-tax, or keep track of how many times you blinked while surreptitiously ogling her out of the corners of your eyes. She also knows where all of your fingers are at all times. She probably despises calculators.
As far as the passage of time is concerned, however, she may be crippled. She may lament, for instance, that it has been "so very long since I bought any jewelry, so very very long", when it has been less than six days since the last purchase. Or wail that she hasn't had a lobster "in like, for EVER" (two weeks ago).
Or, if it is late, she may astutely observe "we should go to sleep now", then keep you up for hours speculating about important things such as what sauce goes well with roast wombat, or whether her teddy bear (The Head Roomie) is really happy. Banana compote? Is it fatty? Garlic? Hey, is wombat even kosher? Fermented black beans, probably, with rice wine and dark vinegar. And would the teddy bear approve of such a dish? What do you want to eat for dinner tomorrow?
CURSING
Cantonese have a creative vocabulary. Much of which, if literally translated, is not nearly as shocking as a contextually accurate rephrasis.
Locutions that precisely translate as 'salt-fish panties', 'dead eighth spinster', 'return your stinky feet', 'chuck your dried oyster', 'hit your stinky dented whore's head' ....... these are not really transparently blunt.
Salt fish is what the squidgy parts of a clapped-out old slag might smell like, eighth spinster suggests both habitual incest (eight refers to turtles) and unmarriageable-ugly-stupid-vile, the returning of stinky feet has something to do with your parents and their bad genetic stock, dried oyster misnames a part of the female body, and the last one is, I hope, somewhat self-explanatory.
She claims that this is all exaggerated (foul-mouthed, her? Hah forsooth!) and in any case "occupationally acquired Tourettes Syndrome", caused by long exposure to the fine white Christians at the charity at which she used to work.
Apparently middle-aged white Christians are incredibly foul-mouthed, you just wouldn't believe. In Chinese, too. Honestly. Crazy white people.
FOOD
The Cantonese-American Female is food obsessed. You can lure her with lobster, shellfish, steamed fatty seabeast, more lobster, crabs, shrimp, eels, delicious pork products, salty and savoury delicacies, another lobster, noodles, European chocolates, dainties, and rarities..... And, for about one week per month, with buckets of fried chicken and ranch dressing. In that week she will also eat Baco-Corn-Nibbles, Sour Cream and Cheddar Potato Gooblies, Zesty Barbecue flavour Cheez-Poofs, Salty Creamcheese Ripplettes, and Shrimp-Flavour Crispotits. While bemoaning the sudden appearance of a pimple, and the lack of lobster.
FUZZY
If it's fuzzy and it smells nice, it is good. Sock Puppets, Teddy Bears, small furry 'roomies', favourite sweaters, and FuzBert.
What, you may ask, is FuzBert? FuzBert is what comes out of the shower - why she nicknamed my stomach 'FuzBert' is a mystery to me, but it speaks to her. Without my wanting it to. FuzBert, apparently, disagrees with almost everything I say. I have not been able to shut him up.
JEWELRY
Cantonese girls like pretty things. But diamonds, on this case, are NOT a girl's best friend. Pearls, jade, and Mexican Silver Jewelry are.
For that last category, E-bay is Hashem's gift to the Cantonese girl, and the internet site that she visits most often (several times a day, I think). She is particularly fond of little fright-head brooches and pins, and also of period costume jewelry (the craftsmanhship of old pieces is so much better than the crap available nowadays). Pearls, of course, accentuate her pale skin and swan-like neck. And jade is jade. All Chinese like jade.
Diamonds are for ugly old white women with turkey wattles only. Feh.
PANTIES
Finding panties that are all cotton, have a nice pattern or texture, and are THE RIGHT SIZE, is a potent source of joy. Even in San Francisco, most underwear is meant for large white women. Who really wants to wear baggy granma pants? And why are white women's rear ends big as a bucket? These are questions that every Cantonese girl eventually asks, after ending up in the teenage girls department. One is tempted to go shop at Sanrio for Hello-Kitty Panties instead. At least those come in reasonable sizes, rather than pale heffalump huge.
VAMPIRES
Currently half of the female student-body at Lowell High School is reading Twilight, or its sequels and rip-offs. The combination of feeding (see FOOD above), danger, and romance, proves irresistible to Cantonese girls with healthy (although repressed) appetites. Those angular features, steely eyes, and firm chins, oh my! Years ago, the series 'Forever Knight' had a similar appeal, and whispering the name (Geraint Wyn Davies) of the actor who played the vampire Nick Knight into her ear would cause her to blush and squeal. It was magic.
I should point out that the right kind of vampire is white. Black vampires are just funny (remember 'Blacula'?), and Chinese vampires don't have it - they're merely reanimated corpses. But ageless, angular, vulpine or acquiline causasians, so deliciously dangerous..... Oh YES! YES! YES!!!!!!!
Geraint Wyn Davies. Squeal blush twitch.
Of course, for more on the subject of Cantonese-American girls, you could visit one of them here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/
It turns out Cantonese-American girls also have a thing for Hennesy brandy.
See here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2008/12/victory-is-mine.html
The culmination of a quest detailed here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2008/12/wheres-key.html
Which was begun here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2008/12/batteries-not-included.html
A regretful distaste for fiery spirits becomes fortuitously apparent here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2008/12/underwear-and-bleary-eyes.html
I am thrilled by the concept of petite Cantonese-American girls brightly redfaced from the merest sip of liquor.
I find my life now strangely enriched.
Having lived with one such for nearly two decades, and having observed the genus for longer than that, I can claim to be an authority on the subject.
There are several characteristics by which the Cantonese-American Female can be recognized.
BOOKS
Cantonese-American Females like literature. Years ago Savage Kitten would lie on the bed laughing maniacally while reading Barbara Cartland and other romance authors. Then she became fascinated with greedy bitches, and read everything she could lay her hands on about Nancy Reagan, Imelda Marcos, and Hollywood gold-diggers. At present she is obsessed with sleazy royal sex - Caroline of Brunswick's lack of hygiene (her petticoats ponged - she changed them once a year whether necessary or not), Henry the Eighth's syphilitic leg-sore (which oozed, stank, and frightened his mistresses), Barbara Villiers (later Duchess of Cleveland) and her raids on the royal treasury as well as the spur of the moment rape of an amazingly limber male carnival performer while she was still the king's mistress (and still married to Roger Palmer, who became Baron of Limerick and Earl of Castlemaine because of her services).
Reading about crazy rich white people is great entertainment.
COUNTING
Unlike many of the modern generation, the typical Cantonese-American Female has a keenly honed mathematical ability. She is able to give exact change, figure out the sales-tax, or keep track of how many times you blinked while surreptitiously ogling her out of the corners of your eyes. She also knows where all of your fingers are at all times. She probably despises calculators.
As far as the passage of time is concerned, however, she may be crippled. She may lament, for instance, that it has been "so very long since I bought any jewelry, so very very long", when it has been less than six days since the last purchase. Or wail that she hasn't had a lobster "in like, for EVER" (two weeks ago).
Or, if it is late, she may astutely observe "we should go to sleep now", then keep you up for hours speculating about important things such as what sauce goes well with roast wombat, or whether her teddy bear (The Head Roomie) is really happy. Banana compote? Is it fatty? Garlic? Hey, is wombat even kosher? Fermented black beans, probably, with rice wine and dark vinegar. And would the teddy bear approve of such a dish? What do you want to eat for dinner tomorrow?
CURSING
Cantonese have a creative vocabulary. Much of which, if literally translated, is not nearly as shocking as a contextually accurate rephrasis.
Locutions that precisely translate as 'salt-fish panties', 'dead eighth spinster', 'return your stinky feet', 'chuck your dried oyster', 'hit your stinky dented whore's head' ....... these are not really transparently blunt.
Salt fish is what the squidgy parts of a clapped-out old slag might smell like, eighth spinster suggests both habitual incest (eight refers to turtles) and unmarriageable-ugly-stupid-vile, the returning of stinky feet has something to do with your parents and their bad genetic stock, dried oyster misnames a part of the female body, and the last one is, I hope, somewhat self-explanatory.
She claims that this is all exaggerated (foul-mouthed, her? Hah forsooth!) and in any case "occupationally acquired Tourettes Syndrome", caused by long exposure to the fine white Christians at the charity at which she used to work.
Apparently middle-aged white Christians are incredibly foul-mouthed, you just wouldn't believe. In Chinese, too. Honestly. Crazy white people.
FOOD
The Cantonese-American Female is food obsessed. You can lure her with lobster, shellfish, steamed fatty seabeast, more lobster, crabs, shrimp, eels, delicious pork products, salty and savoury delicacies, another lobster, noodles, European chocolates, dainties, and rarities..... And, for about one week per month, with buckets of fried chicken and ranch dressing. In that week she will also eat Baco-Corn-Nibbles, Sour Cream and Cheddar Potato Gooblies, Zesty Barbecue flavour Cheez-Poofs, Salty Creamcheese Ripplettes, and Shrimp-Flavour Crispotits. While bemoaning the sudden appearance of a pimple, and the lack of lobster.
FUZZY
If it's fuzzy and it smells nice, it is good. Sock Puppets, Teddy Bears, small furry 'roomies', favourite sweaters, and FuzBert.
What, you may ask, is FuzBert? FuzBert is what comes out of the shower - why she nicknamed my stomach 'FuzBert' is a mystery to me, but it speaks to her. Without my wanting it to. FuzBert, apparently, disagrees with almost everything I say. I have not been able to shut him up.
JEWELRY
Cantonese girls like pretty things. But diamonds, on this case, are NOT a girl's best friend. Pearls, jade, and Mexican Silver Jewelry are.
For that last category, E-bay is Hashem's gift to the Cantonese girl, and the internet site that she visits most often (several times a day, I think). She is particularly fond of little fright-head brooches and pins, and also of period costume jewelry (the craftsmanhship of old pieces is so much better than the crap available nowadays). Pearls, of course, accentuate her pale skin and swan-like neck. And jade is jade. All Chinese like jade.
Diamonds are for ugly old white women with turkey wattles only. Feh.
PANTIES
Finding panties that are all cotton, have a nice pattern or texture, and are THE RIGHT SIZE, is a potent source of joy. Even in San Francisco, most underwear is meant for large white women. Who really wants to wear baggy granma pants? And why are white women's rear ends big as a bucket? These are questions that every Cantonese girl eventually asks, after ending up in the teenage girls department. One is tempted to go shop at Sanrio for Hello-Kitty Panties instead. At least those come in reasonable sizes, rather than pale heffalump huge.
VAMPIRES
Currently half of the female student-body at Lowell High School is reading Twilight, or its sequels and rip-offs. The combination of feeding (see FOOD above), danger, and romance, proves irresistible to Cantonese girls with healthy (although repressed) appetites. Those angular features, steely eyes, and firm chins, oh my! Years ago, the series 'Forever Knight' had a similar appeal, and whispering the name (Geraint Wyn Davies) of the actor who played the vampire Nick Knight into her ear would cause her to blush and squeal. It was magic.
I should point out that the right kind of vampire is white. Black vampires are just funny (remember 'Blacula'?), and Chinese vampires don't have it - they're merely reanimated corpses. But ageless, angular, vulpine or acquiline causasians, so deliciously dangerous..... Oh YES! YES! YES!!!!!!!
Geraint Wyn Davies. Squeal blush twitch.
Of course, for more on the subject of Cantonese-American girls, you could visit one of them here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/
It turns out Cantonese-American girls also have a thing for Hennesy brandy.
See here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2008/12/victory-is-mine.html
The culmination of a quest detailed here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2008/12/wheres-key.html
Which was begun here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2008/12/batteries-not-included.html
A regretful distaste for fiery spirits becomes fortuitously apparent here:
http://deathbynoodles.blogspot.com/2008/12/underwear-and-bleary-eyes.html
I am thrilled by the concept of petite Cantonese-American girls brightly redfaced from the merest sip of liquor.
I find my life now strangely enriched.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
KOSHER GUATEMALAN GIRLS!
The question was posed on Dovbear's blog "what to do if you suspect that the kosher meat on your table has been butchered and packed by 16-year-old Guatemalan girls forced to work 20-hour days under threat of deportation."
Es iz a sehr tiefe un' shverre shailah, b'emmes.
[See this post:
http://dovbear.blogspot.com/2008/12/avi-shafran-and-new-york-times.html
And while you are at it, you might also want to read this:
http://curiousjew.blogspot.com/2008/12/kosher-quandary-ethics-and-kashrut.html
in which Curious Jew notes down what was said at the panel discussion about ethics and kashrus that Steg mentioned here:
http://boroparkpyro.blogspot.com/2008/12/ethics-and-kashrut-panel.html ]
Clearly, what needs to be done is that those girls be obliged to wear very long skirts, baggy and unrevealing clothing that covers them up to the neck and down to the wrist, with complete and modest hair coverings, so that they do not tempt a saintly Mashgiach with their vixenish ways.
If ALL women wore properly modest attire (longs skirts, long sleeves, high collars, and sheitlach), there would soon be peace in the world, the Arabs would start to disappear, and moshiach would come.
It is davka BECAUSE of the horrible modern standards of tzenua, and the unwarranted (possibly even goyish) criticism of frimme companies that do mitzvos like kosher schechting (while charitably providing employment for the unworthies from 'outside', nota bene!), that the world is the mess that it is.
And twenty hour a day employment certainly prevents those damsels from getting into any trouble. We don't even know what they are like - without 20hr a day supervision, who knows? Harlotry, witchcraft, Buddhism, murder, drugs, and unwanted Goytemalan babies! The world is bad enough as it is, please don't make it any worse!
I am, of course, assuming that the mashgechim are NOT working 20 hour days. Their job requires them to be alert and capable of training their eagle eyes on everything in the work place. For a twenty hour shift, at least three mashgechim are required, preferably twice that number to be on the safe side, and to act as a check on any possible licentious behaviour that the girls might engage in.
My respect goes out to the mashgechim at that meat-packer, as I find it hard to even calmly ponder undocumented underage girls working twenty hours a day, but they actually are exposed to them.
If my hands are sweaty at this point just thinking about it, they must be absolutely quivering!
They have my deepest sympathy.
Es iz a sehr tiefe un' shverre shailah, b'emmes.
[See this post:
http://dovbear.blogspot.com/2008/12/avi-shafran-and-new-york-times.html
And while you are at it, you might also want to read this:
http://curiousjew.blogspot.com/2008/12/kosher-quandary-ethics-and-kashrut.html
in which Curious Jew notes down what was said at the panel discussion about ethics and kashrus that Steg mentioned here:
http://boroparkpyro.blogspot.com/2008/12/ethics-and-kashrut-panel.html ]
Clearly, what needs to be done is that those girls be obliged to wear very long skirts, baggy and unrevealing clothing that covers them up to the neck and down to the wrist, with complete and modest hair coverings, so that they do not tempt a saintly Mashgiach with their vixenish ways.
If ALL women wore properly modest attire (longs skirts, long sleeves, high collars, and sheitlach), there would soon be peace in the world, the Arabs would start to disappear, and moshiach would come.
It is davka BECAUSE of the horrible modern standards of tzenua, and the unwarranted (possibly even goyish) criticism of frimme companies that do mitzvos like kosher schechting (while charitably providing employment for the unworthies from 'outside', nota bene!), that the world is the mess that it is.
And twenty hour a day employment certainly prevents those damsels from getting into any trouble. We don't even know what they are like - without 20hr a day supervision, who knows? Harlotry, witchcraft, Buddhism, murder, drugs, and unwanted Goytemalan babies! The world is bad enough as it is, please don't make it any worse!
I am, of course, assuming that the mashgechim are NOT working 20 hour days. Their job requires them to be alert and capable of training their eagle eyes on everything in the work place. For a twenty hour shift, at least three mashgechim are required, preferably twice that number to be on the safe side, and to act as a check on any possible licentious behaviour that the girls might engage in.
My respect goes out to the mashgechim at that meat-packer, as I find it hard to even calmly ponder undocumented underage girls working twenty hours a day, but they actually are exposed to them.
If my hands are sweaty at this point just thinking about it, they must be absolutely quivering!
They have my deepest sympathy.
Friday, July 25, 2008
THEY MUST NOT READ MY BLOG
On a daily basis I receive a fairly large amount of spam e-mail. On the basis of which I can understand what the spambrains think of me. Or at least what they fondly imagine that I am.
PROFILE
I am a short middle-aged bald person with a tiny penis and mediocre breasts, who is passionately interested in Britney Spears naked and the sex-lives of female celebritities. I need more fake watches, university degrees, and designer handbags. Plus excercise equipement, diet pills, and a tummy tuck.
And I want money desperately - hence the lottery e-mails from Europe and bank-account queries from Africa. As well as the circulars telling me to buy this stock now now now before Wall Street discovers it.
Lonely girls in Russia wish to share their vacation photos (I think that's what those are) with me, and I must learn one foreign language right now while I sleep - probably so that I can communicate with my insta-girlfriend in ANY city in the continental United States.
Quite the portrait, eh?
JEEBUS
Oh, and apparently I am a Christian. This according to Amazon, who cannot figure out that someone who buys Toratot (well, chumeshim), commentaries, and biographies of rabbis, as well as much stuff about the Talmud, may, probably, with a certain degree of likelihood, not be passionately committed to the best Christian fiction of 2008.
Echt. And b'emmes.
I am in gonzen not interested in reading about the first tentative married steps of a shy young virgin with Jesus in her heart. The uplift, the end of days, and the mark of the beast are not major themes I look for in romance fiction. Feeling sadness for those who are left behind in massive car-crashes on the freeway, after the heavens rain fire and blood, is not an emotion that figures heavily in my appreciation of paperback novels.
In fact, unlike you I could probably go for weeks without needing the words Christ, sin, Eden, rapture, salvation, Revelations, and The Damned. Normally they do not figure prominently in my vocabulary.
The only prolonged conversation I've had in recent years about Jesus was when I explained to a coworker that Torah study with a friend did not, would not, and never had, involved her dear lord in any way imaginable. Jesus and Torah study do not go hand in hand. They are in fact more or less mutually exclusive. This surprised her, and she barely spoke to me for at least the next two years. I believe she still wonders when I'll burst into flames.
It is a darned good thing that the coworker in question does not read my blog. She might take to wearing garlic and silver if she did.
READ THIS NOW
If many people had read my blog, it would have saved them much time and effort.
Hundreds of people in west-Africa might have realized that all the heartfelt missives they sent me over the years have fallen on deaf eyes. I am not their target audience.
The lonely Russian girls would know that I am only interested if they are petite, have dark hair, and blush prettily.
Amazon would cease telling me about wholesome Protestant novellas.
Various people in major European cities would know that I do not gamble, and have not played any games of chance outside of California.
The sellers of herbal supplements, breast enhancers, and three inch augmentifiers would appreciate that I am an enormous hairy manly man built like a rampaging stallion, and the Christians would grasp the utter nonsense of their ideology.
If you have sent me any of the spam mentioned above, please stop.
I do not need it.
I am only interested in panties, wombats, blushing schoolgirls, and elderly rabbis. Whether you want to sell these to me, or merely show me zesty pictures, is up to you.
PROFILE
I am a short middle-aged bald person with a tiny penis and mediocre breasts, who is passionately interested in Britney Spears naked and the sex-lives of female celebritities. I need more fake watches, university degrees, and designer handbags. Plus excercise equipement, diet pills, and a tummy tuck.
And I want money desperately - hence the lottery e-mails from Europe and bank-account queries from Africa. As well as the circulars telling me to buy this stock now now now before Wall Street discovers it.
Lonely girls in Russia wish to share their vacation photos (I think that's what those are) with me, and I must learn one foreign language right now while I sleep - probably so that I can communicate with my insta-girlfriend in ANY city in the continental United States.
Quite the portrait, eh?
JEEBUS
Oh, and apparently I am a Christian. This according to Amazon, who cannot figure out that someone who buys Toratot (well, chumeshim), commentaries, and biographies of rabbis, as well as much stuff about the Talmud, may, probably, with a certain degree of likelihood, not be passionately committed to the best Christian fiction of 2008.
Echt. And b'emmes.
I am in gonzen not interested in reading about the first tentative married steps of a shy young virgin with Jesus in her heart. The uplift, the end of days, and the mark of the beast are not major themes I look for in romance fiction. Feeling sadness for those who are left behind in massive car-crashes on the freeway, after the heavens rain fire and blood, is not an emotion that figures heavily in my appreciation of paperback novels.
In fact, unlike you I could probably go for weeks without needing the words Christ, sin, Eden, rapture, salvation, Revelations, and The Damned. Normally they do not figure prominently in my vocabulary.
The only prolonged conversation I've had in recent years about Jesus was when I explained to a coworker that Torah study with a friend did not, would not, and never had, involved her dear lord in any way imaginable. Jesus and Torah study do not go hand in hand. They are in fact more or less mutually exclusive. This surprised her, and she barely spoke to me for at least the next two years. I believe she still wonders when I'll burst into flames.
It is a darned good thing that the coworker in question does not read my blog. She might take to wearing garlic and silver if she did.
READ THIS NOW
If many people had read my blog, it would have saved them much time and effort.
Hundreds of people in west-Africa might have realized that all the heartfelt missives they sent me over the years have fallen on deaf eyes. I am not their target audience.
The lonely Russian girls would know that I am only interested if they are petite, have dark hair, and blush prettily.
Amazon would cease telling me about wholesome Protestant novellas.
Various people in major European cities would know that I do not gamble, and have not played any games of chance outside of California.
The sellers of herbal supplements, breast enhancers, and three inch augmentifiers would appreciate that I am an enormous hairy manly man built like a rampaging stallion, and the Christians would grasp the utter nonsense of their ideology.
If you have sent me any of the spam mentioned above, please stop.
I do not need it.
I am only interested in panties, wombats, blushing schoolgirls, and elderly rabbis. Whether you want to sell these to me, or merely show me zesty pictures, is up to you.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
HOW TO MEET GIRLS
Someone asked me recently how Savage Kitten and I got together. Seeing as we've been an item for nearly two decades, to a certain extent I can grasp why this is such a subject of curiosity. After all, we're an unlikely couple - people can thoroughly understand what I see in her, but it seems, and I don't know why, they are totally baffled by her seeing anything at all in me.
She is an intelligent, petite, Cantonese American female, with extremely slender hands, about a decade younger than myself. By any rational standard, she is extremely attractive.
I am a pudgy middle-aged man who drinks and smokes, and writes a blog. So, by any rational standard except evidently yours, also extremely attractive.
She is incredibly shy, and I am socially somewhat inept.
How come we are together?
One word: CANDY
No, I didn't hang around the girls' playground with a bag of all-day suckers. I am upset that you would even think that. You are a pervert. I was on my way to the movies, and stopped at the store for something sweet. While paying I accidentally broke one of the items on the counter. The conversation that ensued was riveting enough to keep me from ever getting to the movie theatre that night.
[Sample of that conversation: Me, in heavily accented Cantonese: "Nei sik m-sik gong kwantung hwa" ('do you speak Cantonese')? She, haughtily and insulted, in English: "I'm sorry, I don't speak Japanese, I'm Cantonese!!!!"]
Pizzazz. Spark. Snapp, crackle, and pop.
I've been very happy since then. Nearly two decades.
Having been lured in by the snappy title of this post, you probably wish to duplicate that experience. My guess is that you're a forty-five-year old kollelnik with too much time on your hands, or the kollelnik's eighteen year old son, desperately seeking to avoid the dreary stultifying life of the previous generation.
Either way, you want zest. That explains why you're reading the blog of a man who keeps talking about little Catholic Schoolgirls, Japanese High School Girls, girls in short short skirts, pantsu, shapely thighs and fine perfume, and The Lowell High School Female Student Body, which is luscious, very feminine, and primarily smallish Chinese-American brainiac.
Indeed, how can you duplicate that experience?
First, you should understand that likely young ladies do not appreciate shverre discussions about the things that interest men. Which is very disappointing - we all want to find someone who shares our interests.......
You will have to develop conversational abilities outside the realm of Talmud or pipe-tobacco, or the search for medicated foot-powder (especially useful if you visit the tropics, the deep south, or even New Jersey).
Secondly, girls also like frequent gifts. Not expensive gifts, just little somethings that show you were thinking of her. Think in terms of flowers, candy, a new Glock 19 nine millimeter.
And thirdly, learn to listen. Sweet young things will pretty much throw themselves at any man who can remain bright-eyed and bushy-tailed while listening to an hour-long dramatic retelling of her last jaunt buying a pair of shoes - one and half inch heels, absolutely adorable, arch support and good leather stitching, a particular shade of red, not burgundy but more like red blood drying on the pavement red, dark-brick red, purply wine crimson red, that sour-looking Philippina that was eyeing the pair speculatively down at Footwear Pavilions or the carnivorous white chick with the tiger tattoo on her lower back who nearly grabbed them, they're mine bitch mine mine mine I saw them first back off, mine! And see, don't they look pretty?
Ferevvins sake don't say anything about how utterly bored you are. Complement the shoes. Praise how they fit. Admire her well-shod feet. Smile.
It's not about shoes, or even the feet; it's about communicating - women do that differently than men.
If you must, dream about Talmud, or pipe tobacco, or medicated footpowder while she's talking. Anything. As long as you don't think out loud, no one gets hurt.
And they really are exceptionally nice feet. You want to hold them, and feel how delightfully they fit into the palms of your hands, and curve so temptingly between the heel and ball of the foot, pale peach skin with barely visible blue veining, velvety to touch, cute little toes..........
Those three things will get you most of the way there. And as long as you also brush your hair and teeth, and act like a gentleman, your chances are excellent.
She is an intelligent, petite, Cantonese American female, with extremely slender hands, about a decade younger than myself. By any rational standard, she is extremely attractive.
I am a pudgy middle-aged man who drinks and smokes, and writes a blog. So, by any rational standard except evidently yours, also extremely attractive.
She is incredibly shy, and I am socially somewhat inept.
How come we are together?
One word: CANDY
No, I didn't hang around the girls' playground with a bag of all-day suckers. I am upset that you would even think that. You are a pervert. I was on my way to the movies, and stopped at the store for something sweet. While paying I accidentally broke one of the items on the counter. The conversation that ensued was riveting enough to keep me from ever getting to the movie theatre that night.
[Sample of that conversation: Me, in heavily accented Cantonese: "Nei sik m-sik gong kwantung hwa" ('do you speak Cantonese')? She, haughtily and insulted, in English: "I'm sorry, I don't speak Japanese, I'm Cantonese!!!!"]
Pizzazz. Spark. Snapp, crackle, and pop.
I've been very happy since then. Nearly two decades.
Having been lured in by the snappy title of this post, you probably wish to duplicate that experience. My guess is that you're a forty-five-year old kollelnik with too much time on your hands, or the kollelnik's eighteen year old son, desperately seeking to avoid the dreary stultifying life of the previous generation.
Either way, you want zest. That explains why you're reading the blog of a man who keeps talking about little Catholic Schoolgirls, Japanese High School Girls, girls in short short skirts, pantsu, shapely thighs and fine perfume, and The Lowell High School Female Student Body, which is luscious, very feminine, and primarily smallish Chinese-American brainiac.
Indeed, how can you duplicate that experience?
First, you should understand that likely young ladies do not appreciate shverre discussions about the things that interest men. Which is very disappointing - we all want to find someone who shares our interests.......
You will have to develop conversational abilities outside the realm of Talmud or pipe-tobacco, or the search for medicated foot-powder (especially useful if you visit the tropics, the deep south, or even New Jersey).
Secondly, girls also like frequent gifts. Not expensive gifts, just little somethings that show you were thinking of her. Think in terms of flowers, candy, a new Glock 19 nine millimeter.
And thirdly, learn to listen. Sweet young things will pretty much throw themselves at any man who can remain bright-eyed and bushy-tailed while listening to an hour-long dramatic retelling of her last jaunt buying a pair of shoes - one and half inch heels, absolutely adorable, arch support and good leather stitching, a particular shade of red, not burgundy but more like red blood drying on the pavement red, dark-brick red, purply wine crimson red, that sour-looking Philippina that was eyeing the pair speculatively down at Footwear Pavilions or the carnivorous white chick with the tiger tattoo on her lower back who nearly grabbed them, they're mine bitch mine mine mine I saw them first back off, mine! And see, don't they look pretty?
Ferevvins sake don't say anything about how utterly bored you are. Complement the shoes. Praise how they fit. Admire her well-shod feet. Smile.
It's not about shoes, or even the feet; it's about communicating - women do that differently than men.
If you must, dream about Talmud, or pipe tobacco, or medicated footpowder while she's talking. Anything. As long as you don't think out loud, no one gets hurt.
And they really are exceptionally nice feet. You want to hold them, and feel how delightfully they fit into the palms of your hands, and curve so temptingly between the heel and ball of the foot, pale peach skin with barely visible blue veining, velvety to touch, cute little toes..........
Those three things will get you most of the way there. And as long as you also brush your hair and teeth, and act like a gentleman, your chances are excellent.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
HENRY DARGER I AM NOT: NEW TAG, PLEATED SKIRTS, AND A COCKTAIL RECIPE
My readers often point things out to me, about myself, that I did not know before. Or did not fully realize. This is always better than having a complete stranger ask "are you nuts?"
And way better than having a bartender say "are you SURE you want another one - that's the fifteenth Grasshopper you've ordered".
[Grasshopper Cocktail: One shot Crème de Menthe, one shot clear Crème de Cacao, one shot half&half. Shake well over ice and pour into a large cocktail glass. If you're really perverse, add a cherry.]
So I appreciate it. Part of having a blog is self-discovery.
[Kinda like discovering a secret perverse fascination with unspeakable drinks. See grasshoppers mentioned above.]
Part of blogging is similar to hearing the next day that one puked all over the bar.
[See grasshoppers mentioned above.]
Fortunately the puking bit, like being caught in a compromising situation with several schoolgirls, has not happened yet. This is largely due to avoiding drinks like grasshoppers.
[I fondly imagine that schoolgirls just LOOOOOOVE froofy drinks with crème de menthe or crème de Cacao. Anything sweet. A watering hole that wanted to attract schoolgirls would serve grasshoppers, with Hello Kitty swizzle sticks. If I ever open a bar near Lowell Highschool, that is exactly what I'll do. ]
"YOU ARE BECOMING THE NEXT HENRY DARGER"
All of this is prolegomatic to a quote.
E-kvetcher wrote: "Dude, you are well on your way to becoming the next Henry Darger."
This was after I had cited a letter from Treppenwitz to one of his obsessed readers, forewording and afterwording it with stuff about dildoes, schoolgirls, teenage lesbians, schoolgirls, Japanese phallus festivals, schoolgirls, Thai penis-shaped luck totems, schoolgirls, and similar decorative elements. Sort of a festive and appealing dimsum banquet approach to using someone else's brilliance, in other words. Treppenwitz's superior cooking, with my parsley on the side of the platter.
[E-kvetcher's blog: http://search-for-emes.blogspot.com/ Treppenwitz's blog: http://bogieworks.blogs.com/treppenwitz/ The questionable post itself: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2008/05/all-about-fellow-blogger-and-cute.html .
Bear in mind that there is nothing on either e-kvetcher or Treppenwitz's blogs about teenage lesbians - they probably do not think about such things. Deliberately. I can understand that - teenage lesbians can be very distracting.]
Henry Darger was the genius who wrote "The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnian War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion". A magnum opus of over fifteen thousand pages, with hundreds of illustrations, about pubescent heroines making daring escapes, fighting fiercely, being tortured, along with supernatural elements, general cruelty, and decadent spookiness.
Fifteen thousand pages, plus. About pubescent girls.
He may have been obsessed.
So I'm not entirely sure what e-kvetcher meant - teenage schoolgirls only occur occasionally in my writings. I am by no means obsessed. Not by a long shot. I am fourteen thousand pages short of an obsession.
[I should mention that we can divide the category 'teenage schoolgirls' into TWO main categories of interest: 'Little Catholic Schoolgirls', and 'Japanese Schoolgirls'. The division is according to garment - little Catholic schoolgirls wear white shirts, cardigans, and plaid skirts, whereas Japanese schoolgirls wear a sailor suit top and plain blue skirts. The skirts, in both cases, are pleated (this is very important). Socks are white. Thighs are pleasingly peachy.]
It's not an obsession. Food and pipe-tobacco are obsessions, medicated foot-powder perhaps also.
Uniformed schoolgirls and their healthy habits, and delightful lack of sartorial choices, aren't.
But e-kvetcher noticed a theme. So for his and your benefit, I have created a new tag: SCHOOLGIRLS. It occurs beneath this post, and has been appended to all posts in which schoolgirls (of either type) appear. Click on it, and read the posts. Especially the very first one ('Enough Char-siu noodle soup for two people' - posted October 26, 2007). You will kindly note that the hero of that post is actually a fresh-faced and weak-kneed bochur. Not a schoolgirl.
And way better than having a bartender say "are you SURE you want another one - that's the fifteenth Grasshopper you've ordered".
[Grasshopper Cocktail: One shot Crème de Menthe, one shot clear Crème de Cacao, one shot half&half. Shake well over ice and pour into a large cocktail glass. If you're really perverse, add a cherry.]
So I appreciate it. Part of having a blog is self-discovery.
[Kinda like discovering a secret perverse fascination with unspeakable drinks. See grasshoppers mentioned above.]
Part of blogging is similar to hearing the next day that one puked all over the bar.
[See grasshoppers mentioned above.]
Fortunately the puking bit, like being caught in a compromising situation with several schoolgirls, has not happened yet. This is largely due to avoiding drinks like grasshoppers.
[I fondly imagine that schoolgirls just LOOOOOOVE froofy drinks with crème de menthe or crème de Cacao. Anything sweet. A watering hole that wanted to attract schoolgirls would serve grasshoppers, with Hello Kitty swizzle sticks. If I ever open a bar near Lowell Highschool, that is exactly what I'll do. ]
"YOU ARE BECOMING THE NEXT HENRY DARGER"
All of this is prolegomatic to a quote.
E-kvetcher wrote: "Dude, you are well on your way to becoming the next Henry Darger."
This was after I had cited a letter from Treppenwitz to one of his obsessed readers, forewording and afterwording it with stuff about dildoes, schoolgirls, teenage lesbians, schoolgirls, Japanese phallus festivals, schoolgirls, Thai penis-shaped luck totems, schoolgirls, and similar decorative elements. Sort of a festive and appealing dimsum banquet approach to using someone else's brilliance, in other words. Treppenwitz's superior cooking, with my parsley on the side of the platter.
[E-kvetcher's blog: http://search-for-emes.blogspot.com/ Treppenwitz's blog: http://bogieworks.blogs.com/treppenwitz/ The questionable post itself: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2008/05/all-about-fellow-blogger-and-cute.html .
Bear in mind that there is nothing on either e-kvetcher or Treppenwitz's blogs about teenage lesbians - they probably do not think about such things. Deliberately. I can understand that - teenage lesbians can be very distracting.]
Henry Darger was the genius who wrote "The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnian War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion". A magnum opus of over fifteen thousand pages, with hundreds of illustrations, about pubescent heroines making daring escapes, fighting fiercely, being tortured, along with supernatural elements, general cruelty, and decadent spookiness.
Fifteen thousand pages, plus. About pubescent girls.
He may have been obsessed.
So I'm not entirely sure what e-kvetcher meant - teenage schoolgirls only occur occasionally in my writings. I am by no means obsessed. Not by a long shot. I am fourteen thousand pages short of an obsession.
[I should mention that we can divide the category 'teenage schoolgirls' into TWO main categories of interest: 'Little Catholic Schoolgirls', and 'Japanese Schoolgirls'. The division is according to garment - little Catholic schoolgirls wear white shirts, cardigans, and plaid skirts, whereas Japanese schoolgirls wear a sailor suit top and plain blue skirts. The skirts, in both cases, are pleated (this is very important). Socks are white. Thighs are pleasingly peachy.]
It's not an obsession. Food and pipe-tobacco are obsessions, medicated foot-powder perhaps also.
Uniformed schoolgirls and their healthy habits, and delightful lack of sartorial choices, aren't.
But e-kvetcher noticed a theme. So for his and your benefit, I have created a new tag: SCHOOLGIRLS. It occurs beneath this post, and has been appended to all posts in which schoolgirls (of either type) appear. Click on it, and read the posts. Especially the very first one ('Enough Char-siu noodle soup for two people' - posted October 26, 2007). You will kindly note that the hero of that post is actually a fresh-faced and weak-kneed bochur. Not a schoolgirl.
Friday, June 06, 2008
ANGRY MOBS, RAMPANT THUGGISM, OR JUST THOSE SMOKERS?
We smokers, when we're not trying to kill your children with our cancer-causing fumes and effluvia, or nauseate your delicate stomachs, or blacken the innocent lungs of people five counties over, are a potentially violent bunch of over-indulgers, profligates, and orgiasts. Nay, veritable brigands, rapists, and incendiarists. We're so evil. Gevalt.
Quote from a newsletter:
SMOKING BAN A THREAT TO PUBLIC ORDER
The ban on smoking in cafés and clubs which comes into effect on July 1 may lead to extra tension and security problems around busy night spots such as the Rembrandtplein and Leidseplein in Amsterdam, says the safety and crisis management institute COT in Friday’s Parool.[Source: http://www.dutchnews.nl/news/archives/2008/06/]
The original article in Het Parool can be found here:
http://www.parool.nl/parool/nl/4/AMSTERDAM/article/detail/16649/2008/06/06/Lallende-cafeganger-buiten-kan-probleem-zijn.dhtml
It's entirely in Dutch, so you'll just have to accept my assurance that the headline "Lallende caféganger buiten kan probleem zijn" is actually rather pithy. The verb 'lallen' implies joyous over-the-top misbehaviour. Celebratory perversity, in fact. Such as a drunkard would commit.
[Het Parool ( http://www.parool.nl/ ) was founded during WWII as a resistance newspaper (for background, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Het_Parool). It is a far better newspaper than the Algemeen Dagblad or the Telegraaf. The Netherlands no longer has the over-all excellent journalism of the fifties and sixties, but Het Parool still has integrity and still maintains high standards.]
A SINCERE (& HEARTFELT) PLEA FOR ACTION
It is essential to insulate the pure and innocent public from deviants such as us. The reason being that when we're not 'snoozing in the gutter (as the rioting begins)' after a night of cheap cigars, black shag, navy flake, or coarse Turkish, we are 'too drunk to give a hoot ' about your wellbeing. We will threaten and leer. We will endanger you - unless we are stopped. You need to be protected.
Yes you do.
Trust me.
Give us our own places, and we won't bother you. And it seems logical that you would want to keep us INDOORS. Away from traffic. Away from the horses. Away from the sensitive eyseses and noseses of the gentler sex. Away from sweet little Catholic schoolgirls with their little plaid skirts, plump girlish thighs, and white white socks.
I suggest stocking the 'smokers-reserves' with lots of good reading material in several languages, plus a broad selection of single malts, fine Irish distillates, cognac, and Armagnac. This (plus a choice of teas and coffee) will keep us inside. Guaranteed.
You lot can have the gin and vodka. And we sincerely hope you enjoy drinking it. Outside.
------------------------------------
NOTE: The statements "snoozing in the gutter as the rioting begins" and "too drunk to give a hoot" are praedictions by concerned non-smokers Eric S. and Maya C. .
They further opine that the ban cited above means the end of civilization.
I concur.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Quote from a newsletter:
SMOKING BAN A THREAT TO PUBLIC ORDER
The ban on smoking in cafés and clubs which comes into effect on July 1 may lead to extra tension and security problems around busy night spots such as the Rembrandtplein and Leidseplein in Amsterdam, says the safety and crisis management institute COT in Friday’s Parool.[Source: http://www.dutchnews.nl/news/archives/2008/06/]
The original article in Het Parool can be found here:
http://www.parool.nl/parool/nl/4/AMSTERDAM/article/detail/16649/2008/06/06/Lallende-cafeganger-buiten-kan-probleem-zijn.dhtml
It's entirely in Dutch, so you'll just have to accept my assurance that the headline "Lallende caféganger buiten kan probleem zijn" is actually rather pithy. The verb 'lallen' implies joyous over-the-top misbehaviour. Celebratory perversity, in fact. Such as a drunkard would commit.
[Het Parool ( http://www.parool.nl/ ) was founded during WWII as a resistance newspaper (for background, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Het_Parool). It is a far better newspaper than the Algemeen Dagblad or the Telegraaf. The Netherlands no longer has the over-all excellent journalism of the fifties and sixties, but Het Parool still has integrity and still maintains high standards.]
A SINCERE (& HEARTFELT) PLEA FOR ACTION
It is essential to insulate the pure and innocent public from deviants such as us. The reason being that when we're not 'snoozing in the gutter (as the rioting begins)' after a night of cheap cigars, black shag, navy flake, or coarse Turkish, we are 'too drunk to give a hoot ' about your wellbeing. We will threaten and leer. We will endanger you - unless we are stopped. You need to be protected.
Yes you do.
Trust me.
Give us our own places, and we won't bother you. And it seems logical that you would want to keep us INDOORS. Away from traffic. Away from the horses. Away from the sensitive eyseses and noseses of the gentler sex. Away from sweet little Catholic schoolgirls with their little plaid skirts, plump girlish thighs, and white white socks.
I suggest stocking the 'smokers-reserves' with lots of good reading material in several languages, plus a broad selection of single malts, fine Irish distillates, cognac, and Armagnac. This (plus a choice of teas and coffee) will keep us inside. Guaranteed.
You lot can have the gin and vodka. And we sincerely hope you enjoy drinking it. Outside.
------------------------------------
NOTE: The statements "snoozing in the gutter as the rioting begins" and "too drunk to give a hoot" are praedictions by concerned non-smokers Eric S. and Maya C. .
They further opine that the ban cited above means the end of civilization.
I concur.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, December 06, 2007
KINDLY AND QUICK
Tis the season to be..... something.
If you're not sure what, read on.
Commentator Spiros writes underneath a post:
"Wait... You're forgetting about the one to three comely Dutch misses in blackface who are just waiting to discipline "bad" children; if that doesn't give you a warm (or at least tingly) feeling for the holidays, then there must be something wrong with you. "
This was further to his previous comment:
"Try as I might, I can't shake the image of one to three comely Dutch misses in blackface (and black, thigh high boots) (and black fish-net stockings), with or without birches, getting ready to mete out punishment... Almost good enough incentive to be naughty. "
Although these comments do indeed logically segue from one of my recent posts and he can therefore NOT be accused of being off his nut, it does shmeck remarkably of obsession.
[These posts: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2007/12/in-mood.html which is about the festive season, and http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2007/11/justice-is-angry-black-man.html which is about something Dutch.]
I know him, and I'm fairly certain he isn't crazy. Instead, he is fondly indulging his Dutch side - the Dutch, as is widely known, have a taste for both fetishes and comely misses.
I am not entirely sure whether it is the first or last factor that tickles him - if the first, any old birching will probably do. I wish I still had the contact data for that coworker back in the eighties who moonlighted as Madame Saundra - I heard she was quite good with birches, canes, and paddles. But there's page after page of them in the phone-book, and half the office ladies in the downtown are probably quite capable. Let your fingers do the walking, I cannot help you there.
If, on the other hand, the 'comely misses' are the attraction, may I strongly suggest instead some nice Cantonese girls from Lowell High School?
[Lowell is also called the 'Finishing School For Chinese Girls', seeing as much of the luscious student body is super-intelligent Chinese American female, most of whom will go on to top-notch universities - Lowell has extremely high standards.]
Not that I'm recommending that you trawl outside the school with a megaphone or accost the little dears at the bus stop, but have you considered placing an ad in one of the magazines that they read?
If you aren't certain what they read, you might stroll nonchalantly past them a few times (without drawing their attention!), but my guess is that half of them are subscribed to the Economist, one quarter receive the Antioch Review four times a year, one eighth of them regularly read Scientific American, a small number buy Exquisite Corpse down at City Lights on a regular basis, and all of them, ALL OF THEM! every! singel! one! of! them! get Hello Kitty Magazine (the first issue focused on Britain, where Hello Kitty is supposed to live).
Try putting a carefully worded add in Hello Kitty Magazine phrased in charming Japanese English:
"Genterman of distinguishment bad naughty, are you miss Keiko? Thigh high boots, fishnet stockings, you very please yes. Responsing kindly quick San Francisco box 89".
If nothing else, the inquiries you receive will make for some engrossing reading, guaranteed to keep you warm in this frigid season. Keeping toasty is what the holidays are all about.
-------------------------------------
As an afterthought, publishing those letters (without attribution) as an anthology would thrill the rest of us too. It would be a best-seller. Imagine the movie they could make of it!
With Gong Li or the fabulous Maggie Cheung (Cheung Man-Yuk) in one of the roles. Oh very please yes!
If you're not sure what, read on.
Commentator Spiros writes underneath a post:
"Wait... You're forgetting about the one to three comely Dutch misses in blackface who are just waiting to discipline "bad" children; if that doesn't give you a warm (or at least tingly) feeling for the holidays, then there must be something wrong with you. "
This was further to his previous comment:
"Try as I might, I can't shake the image of one to three comely Dutch misses in blackface (and black, thigh high boots) (and black fish-net stockings), with or without birches, getting ready to mete out punishment... Almost good enough incentive to be naughty. "
Although these comments do indeed logically segue from one of my recent posts and he can therefore NOT be accused of being off his nut, it does shmeck remarkably of obsession.
[These posts: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2007/12/in-mood.html which is about the festive season, and http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2007/11/justice-is-angry-black-man.html which is about something Dutch.]
I know him, and I'm fairly certain he isn't crazy. Instead, he is fondly indulging his Dutch side - the Dutch, as is widely known, have a taste for both fetishes and comely misses.
I am not entirely sure whether it is the first or last factor that tickles him - if the first, any old birching will probably do. I wish I still had the contact data for that coworker back in the eighties who moonlighted as Madame Saundra - I heard she was quite good with birches, canes, and paddles. But there's page after page of them in the phone-book, and half the office ladies in the downtown are probably quite capable. Let your fingers do the walking, I cannot help you there.
If, on the other hand, the 'comely misses' are the attraction, may I strongly suggest instead some nice Cantonese girls from Lowell High School?
[Lowell is also called the 'Finishing School For Chinese Girls', seeing as much of the luscious student body is super-intelligent Chinese American female, most of whom will go on to top-notch universities - Lowell has extremely high standards.]
Not that I'm recommending that you trawl outside the school with a megaphone or accost the little dears at the bus stop, but have you considered placing an ad in one of the magazines that they read?
If you aren't certain what they read, you might stroll nonchalantly past them a few times (without drawing their attention!), but my guess is that half of them are subscribed to the Economist, one quarter receive the Antioch Review four times a year, one eighth of them regularly read Scientific American, a small number buy Exquisite Corpse down at City Lights on a regular basis, and all of them, ALL OF THEM! every! singel! one! of! them! get Hello Kitty Magazine (the first issue focused on Britain, where Hello Kitty is supposed to live).
Try putting a carefully worded add in Hello Kitty Magazine phrased in charming Japanese English:
"Genterman of distinguishment bad naughty, are you miss Keiko? Thigh high boots, fishnet stockings, you very please yes. Responsing kindly quick San Francisco box 89".
If nothing else, the inquiries you receive will make for some engrossing reading, guaranteed to keep you warm in this frigid season. Keeping toasty is what the holidays are all about.
-------------------------------------
As an afterthought, publishing those letters (without attribution) as an anthology would thrill the rest of us too. It would be a best-seller. Imagine the movie they could make of it!
With Gong Li or the fabulous Maggie Cheung (Cheung Man-Yuk) in one of the roles. Oh very please yes!
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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,...
