I am in receipt of an e-mail from someone who believes that I am an African-American feminist lesbian, and will therefore be interested in revolutionary blows against the male-dominated neo-con imperialist status quo. Actually, I am not African American or lesbian - but truth be told, I may have advertently given her that impression. Oops.
Warning: not all e-mail exchanges with strangers calling themselves Malika, Leila, or Sharhazada are, in fact, contacts from valid new recruits for the Anarcho-Sexual Anti-Imperialists or the HomoSexual & Transgender Front For The Support of Palestine.
[Some of us actually think that you pro-Hamas poly-gendrics are stark raving mad, and really wish that you had developed as good a relationship with your therapist as you seem to have done with the repressive gynophobic patriarchy of the Arab world.]
Anyhoo, the e-mail that Sylphia forwarded contains some lovely text.
WOMEN IN BLACK NEEDS YOUR HELP TO DEFEAT THE ZIONIST!!!
Friday, September 5
At 5-6 PM
Montgomery and Market Streets, SF
San Francisco Women in Black (SF WIB) has been standing in opposition to War, Militarism, and Ultra-Right Nationalism for over 7 years.
We hold signs saying: End the Occupation of Palestine, Iraq, and Afghanistan!
Women's Rights are Human Rights! Dismantle the Settlements!
For the last several months we have been attacked by Zionists, a group of mostly men who have come bringing huge Israeli and American flags, talking, smoking and handing out flyers. Their purpose is to oppress us and to drive us away.
We need you to come and help us keep putting out the message that the Palestinians deserve their human rights! All womyn are invited!
----------------
I'm fairly certain that these lovely weiben oyf shvortz are aware of the oppression of women in Palestinian society and the rest of the Middle-East, yet they have chosen to support Hamas and the uber masculine warlords of the West-Bank as their signal contribution to revolutionary struggle.
I'm not sure how accurate they are in their portrayal of the group of Zionists who counterdemo them every first Friday - I know most of those Zionists, and consider them very liberal. Not insane, like many of the more radical residents of the Bay Area, but nevertheless far too left-wing to be entirely safe in the rust-belt, deep-south, or Alaska.
Several of those Zionists are in fact peaceful, female, and/ or gay. Being peaceful, female, and / or gay are positions very consistent with support for Israel, a nation where being any or all of those three things is socially safe and has legal and political protection.
I should probably point out that a peaceful gay female in Gaza or Tehran would probably be arrested, raped repeatedly in jail, and then stoned to death. Being gay in Egypt subjects one to brutal police harassment and broomstick penetration, and recent reports paint an unsavoury picture of sexual harassment in Cairo (virulent, omnipresent, and vicious).
Being gay or female is not safe or socially acceptable in Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Syria...... Well, anywhere in the Arab world except for nightclubs in the Christian districts of Beirut or tourist areas of Morocco.
But never mind. I now wish to draw your attention to the passage that the e-mail reminded me of.
JUDITH: I do feel, Reg, that any anti-imperialist group like ours must reflect such a divergence of interests within its power-base.
REG: Agreed. Francis?
FRANCIS: Yeah. I think Judith's point of view is very valid, Reg, provided the movement never forgets that it is the inalienable right of every man--
STAN: Or woman.
FRANCIS: Or woman..... to rid himself--
STAN: Or herself.
FRANCIS: Or herself.
REG: Agreed.
FRANCIS: Thank you, brother.
STAN: Or sister.
FRANCIS: Or sister. Where was I?
REG: I think you'd finished.
FRANCIS: Oh. Right.
REG: Furthermore, it is the birthright of every man--
STAN: Or woman.
REG: Why don't you shut up about women, Stan. You're putting us off.
STAN: Women have a perfect right to play a part in our movement, Reg.
FRANCIS: Why are you always on about women, Stan?
STAN: I want to be one.
REG: What?
STAN: I want to be a woman. From now on, I want you all to call me 'Loretta'.
REG: What?
LORETTA: It's my right as a man.
JUDITH: Well, why do you want to be Loretta, Stan?
LORETTA: I want to have babies!
REG: You want to have babies?
LORETTA: It's every man's right to have babies if he wants them.
REG: But... you can't have babies.
LORETTA: Don't you oppress me.
REG: I'm not oppressing you, Stan. You haven't got a womb! Where's the foetus going to gestate? You going to keep it in a box?
LORETTA: [crying]
JUDITH: Here! I've got an idea. Suppose you agree that he can't actually have babies, not having a womb, which is nobody's fault, not even the Romans', but that he can have the right to have babies?
FRANCIS: Good idea, Judith. We shall fight the oppressors for your right to have babies, brother. Sister. Sorry.
REG: What's the point?
FRANCIS: What?
REG: What's the point of fighting for his right to have babies when he can't have babies?!
FRANCIS: It is symbolic of our struggle against oppression.
REG: Symbolic of his struggle against reality.
[Source: Monty Python - Life of Brian]
It may not be entirely clear why the e-mail reminded me of the passage from LofB above. Just think about it. And don't call me Loretta.
I guess I should write Sylphia and tell her that, alas, Malika (or Leila, or Sharhazada) is far too busy this Friday evening, preparing a nutritious dinner for her husband and children after they return from the Masjid and break their ramadan fast. Sweet juicy dates, milk and honey, Sohan Halwa, Rice Pilaf, and Goat-leg soup! Yummers bismillah and Salaam Aleikum sister!
Note: No gentlemen named Muhammad or important members of the matriarchate were harmed in the writing of this post.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
TRADEMARKS
This isn't something that used to come up in conversation. In fact, I cannot remember anyone ever talking about it more than ten years ago. It just wasn't an issue.
TRAMP STAMPS
If you've lived in the Amazon basin for the last decade you might be unaware of the phenomenon, but a resident of a modern American city will have seen these almost everywhere. They are tattoos on the lower backs of young ladies of questionable judgment.
Why would anyone put a sunburst or a blooming rose right above the cleft dividing their buttocks? Tattoos in general baffle me, but tattoos that draw attention to the private parts are entirely loopy.
It isn't a question of modesty - several of the young ladies flashing their tattoos could never be accused of being modest in the first place.
Maybe it is a lack of self-confidence?
My dear, if that portion of your anatomy has any appealing qualities whatsoever, you need not even try to draw the eyes thither. Trust me.
If the portion is only average, the tattoo is gilding the lily, and otherwise it is twixt too much of a good thing and too much information in its overall effect. Commercial art for an unwanted services. Go away.
And, if the tattoo advertises your Christian Lesbianism, why on earth are you showing it to the world?
Please cover yourself.
I only think about these issues on warm days. Often the weather keeps most arse-crack tattoos covered.
When confronted with a tramp-stamp I avert my eyes - not so much a sense of propriety as a stubborn refusal to give a slut-butt the attention it arrogantly demands. I am under no obligation to take notice of some stranger's bad-clothing decisions, or of the fit of drunken insanity that made her and several of her sailor friends get permanent mementoes several years ago.
I shall look away.
Savage Kitten, on the other hand, could not help noticing the tramp-stamp in line at the store. Apparently the exposed upper cleavage of one person ahead of her was matched by the uncovered lower cleavage of another. The one with the plumbers-cleft had, in ornate lettering on her fatty lower back, the enscription "Precious Pisces".
If the young lady meant to suggest two sleek and lively fish, she failed. Savage Kitten described it as more like two big blubbery sea lions fighting for room on the dock. I believe Savage Kitten also used the words "felt like clawing my eyes out ". The experience has scarred her, and it may have given her nightmares. Ick poo. The horror, the horror, and oh, the humanity.
Society's permissiveness has gone too far. We need to bring back the sack dress.
Thank you.
TRAMP STAMPS
If you've lived in the Amazon basin for the last decade you might be unaware of the phenomenon, but a resident of a modern American city will have seen these almost everywhere. They are tattoos on the lower backs of young ladies of questionable judgment.
Why would anyone put a sunburst or a blooming rose right above the cleft dividing their buttocks? Tattoos in general baffle me, but tattoos that draw attention to the private parts are entirely loopy.
It isn't a question of modesty - several of the young ladies flashing their tattoos could never be accused of being modest in the first place.
Maybe it is a lack of self-confidence?
My dear, if that portion of your anatomy has any appealing qualities whatsoever, you need not even try to draw the eyes thither. Trust me.
If the portion is only average, the tattoo is gilding the lily, and otherwise it is twixt too much of a good thing and too much information in its overall effect. Commercial art for an unwanted services. Go away.
And, if the tattoo advertises your Christian Lesbianism, why on earth are you showing it to the world?
Please cover yourself.
I only think about these issues on warm days. Often the weather keeps most arse-crack tattoos covered.
When confronted with a tramp-stamp I avert my eyes - not so much a sense of propriety as a stubborn refusal to give a slut-butt the attention it arrogantly demands. I am under no obligation to take notice of some stranger's bad-clothing decisions, or of the fit of drunken insanity that made her and several of her sailor friends get permanent mementoes several years ago.
I shall look away.
Savage Kitten, on the other hand, could not help noticing the tramp-stamp in line at the store. Apparently the exposed upper cleavage of one person ahead of her was matched by the uncovered lower cleavage of another. The one with the plumbers-cleft had, in ornate lettering on her fatty lower back, the enscription "Precious Pisces".
If the young lady meant to suggest two sleek and lively fish, she failed. Savage Kitten described it as more like two big blubbery sea lions fighting for room on the dock. I believe Savage Kitten also used the words "felt like clawing my eyes out ". The experience has scarred her, and it may have given her nightmares. Ick poo. The horror, the horror, and oh, the humanity.
Society's permissiveness has gone too far. We need to bring back the sack dress.
Thank you.
A LOVELY BUNCH OF COCONUTS
In order to properly lament the end of a long weekend and the return to the mundane world, I stopped by a neighborhood bar last night, becoming the third customer in the place.
The other two customers consisted of the Dreary Old Bore, and a person with what can only be described in lascivious terms - which, for reasons of tzenua, I shall not describe. Just imagine what was visible from bar-level up.
The person with the two lovely undescribed items was happily turning back and forth in her chair. The plunging neckline left nothing to the imagination of that which I am asking you to imagine.
Or of those. Imagine them. Plural.
The Dreary Old Bore was far less boring than normal - he couldn't tear his eyes away. Just sat there staring. Mouth agape. Eyes directly aimed at whatever it is that, for reasons of tzenua, I cannot name.
What made it truly interesting was that the owner of the lovely indescribables was obviously not originally female.
But according to the bartender, they were indeed real, not implants. Just the natural result of hormone treatment.
Anything that can shut the Dreary Old Bore up has my vote. I understand that the hormone treatment is both ongoing and progressing. I keenly look forward to further developments.
The other two customers consisted of the Dreary Old Bore, and a person with what can only be described in lascivious terms - which, for reasons of tzenua, I shall not describe. Just imagine what was visible from bar-level up.
The person with the two lovely undescribed items was happily turning back and forth in her chair. The plunging neckline left nothing to the imagination of that which I am asking you to imagine.
Or of those. Imagine them. Plural.
The Dreary Old Bore was far less boring than normal - he couldn't tear his eyes away. Just sat there staring. Mouth agape. Eyes directly aimed at whatever it is that, for reasons of tzenua, I cannot name.
What made it truly interesting was that the owner of the lovely indescribables was obviously not originally female.
But according to the bartender, they were indeed real, not implants. Just the natural result of hormone treatment.
Anything that can shut the Dreary Old Bore up has my vote. I understand that the hormone treatment is both ongoing and progressing. I keenly look forward to further developments.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
HAPPINESS IS QUARRELLING WITH A MONKEY
It was a lovely weekend. We did not go anywhere.
San Francisco was nice and quiet, the streets between our house and the Indian Restaurant near Japantown were glorious in the afternoon sunlight; dust-motes refracted in slanting beams, the lengthened shade of trees; after several months of gloom we are finally enjoying some summer weather.
So of course we stayed indoors most of the time.
Sunday and Monday I paddled around the house in my bare feet, wearing baggies and a wife-beater, and smoking a tobacco that I will not confess to liking or reveal the name of before I post a defensive review on this blog - It's aza sleazy and kurvedik that it absolutely requires apologesis, despite the extremely reputable company that produced it.
It is not as bad as some of the coconut-peach-mango rum-topf perfume abortions that many suburban tobacconists vend, but it's pretty darn shameless. A veritable brass-pole slut.
Albeit a very fine product.
A pattern became apparent during the day. The stuffed monkey would start making nasty comments about some of the other roomies, and after a few minutes of arguing with him, I would send him to the corner, and head into the kitchen with a pipe for some peace and quiet.
What kind of nasty comments did he make? Really cruel ones. Judge for yourself.
About the sock-goat: "He smells all nanky, la."
About the small she-sheep: "Of course she's stupid - she's a pretty little girlie!"
About the froad: "Nasty green flippery guy."
About the hand-puppet spider: "Him evil - squash the bug."
About the little punk piglet: "Juicy pork!"
These are not the kind of comments a gentleman would make. Nor would a gentleman suggest that the froad has a gas problem, that the piglet could easily miss a limb - she has four ("more than enough for such a lazy creature!"), or that the sock-goat had no feelings because he was inferior and inbred. That, plus his insistence that he himself looked like Humphrey Bogart ("the world's handsomest Philippino"), and that Ms. Bruin had it in for him, would be enough to send any man into the kitchen. Often. With pipes and fruity tobacco.
Ten bowls full.
Big bowls.
Full of perfumy tobacco.
Don't blame me if the kitchen now reeks like a Portuguese dance hall.
It's all the monkey's fault.
-------------------------------
Savage Kitten lazed about reading during most of Sunday and Monday. And occasionally had a snack. Slices of melon, plus peaches, plums, and a large bag of sour-cream and onion chips. She was exceptionally lazy. Which is davka what Labor Day is all about.
I shan't even mention her crazy theory that it is okay to be slovenly on Labor Day because one is rejecting the tyranny of middle-class salary-prompted value-systems.
I have no idea what that means, but it is probably wrong. After all, she's a pretty little...........
San Francisco was nice and quiet, the streets between our house and the Indian Restaurant near Japantown were glorious in the afternoon sunlight; dust-motes refracted in slanting beams, the lengthened shade of trees; after several months of gloom we are finally enjoying some summer weather.
So of course we stayed indoors most of the time.
Sunday and Monday I paddled around the house in my bare feet, wearing baggies and a wife-beater, and smoking a tobacco that I will not confess to liking or reveal the name of before I post a defensive review on this blog - It's aza sleazy and kurvedik that it absolutely requires apologesis, despite the extremely reputable company that produced it.
It is not as bad as some of the coconut-peach-mango rum-topf perfume abortions that many suburban tobacconists vend, but it's pretty darn shameless. A veritable brass-pole slut.
Albeit a very fine product.
A pattern became apparent during the day. The stuffed monkey would start making nasty comments about some of the other roomies, and after a few minutes of arguing with him, I would send him to the corner, and head into the kitchen with a pipe for some peace and quiet.
What kind of nasty comments did he make? Really cruel ones. Judge for yourself.
About the sock-goat: "He smells all nanky, la."
About the small she-sheep: "Of course she's stupid - she's a pretty little girlie!"
About the froad: "Nasty green flippery guy."
About the hand-puppet spider: "Him evil - squash the bug."
About the little punk piglet: "Juicy pork!"
These are not the kind of comments a gentleman would make. Nor would a gentleman suggest that the froad has a gas problem, that the piglet could easily miss a limb - she has four ("more than enough for such a lazy creature!"), or that the sock-goat had no feelings because he was inferior and inbred. That, plus his insistence that he himself looked like Humphrey Bogart ("the world's handsomest Philippino"), and that Ms. Bruin had it in for him, would be enough to send any man into the kitchen. Often. With pipes and fruity tobacco.
Ten bowls full.
Big bowls.
Full of perfumy tobacco.
Don't blame me if the kitchen now reeks like a Portuguese dance hall.
It's all the monkey's fault.
-------------------------------
Savage Kitten lazed about reading during most of Sunday and Monday. And occasionally had a snack. Slices of melon, plus peaches, plums, and a large bag of sour-cream and onion chips. She was exceptionally lazy. Which is davka what Labor Day is all about.
I shan't even mention her crazy theory that it is okay to be slovenly on Labor Day because one is rejecting the tyranny of middle-class salary-prompted value-systems.
I have no idea what that means, but it is probably wrong. After all, she's a pretty little...........
Friday, August 29, 2008
PANTIES - NIGHT-TIME PAVEMENT SOUVENIRS!
Yesterday evening I was wandering around my neighborhood with a pipe in my mouth, when my eye fell on a pair of panties.
[I often smoke outdoors. Savage Kitten does not appreciate the perfume of fine Oriental blends, and I had a Charatan filled with Presbyterian Mixture going.]
The panties were small. The panties were a very pretty raspberry-rose. The panties were empty.
One does not often come across a clean and entirely unoccupied pair of panties.
Usually, when one stumbles across panties on the public street, they are either disreputable looking and in the gutter, or filled with a (briskly) moving posterior.
If there is merit to the posterior the latter situation is preferable.
[This is mostly speculative, you understand. I do not spend much time thinking about panties, nor strive much to see them, but merely gratefully note them in passing. It is a benefit to no longer being allowed to smoke at the office or inside cafés. This is the unintended brighter side of anti-smoking regulations.]
These panties were exceptionally reputable looking.
One has to wonder how a nice pair of panties end up on the pavement.
Did the young lady wearing them suddenly decide to go commando? Were they a spare that fell out of a rushing schoolgirl's backpack?
Were several teenagers horsing around? Was it a dare? Did someone angry run off pantyless?
Did she rush out of the house before fully dressed? There was something she forgot? Was she gaily waving them from her window at a beau?
Maybe they were drenched with perfume as a memento?
Too loose, perhaps, they may have slipped off accidentally as the wearer hurried up the hill.
She could have been too embarrassed to repossess them and thus draw attention to whatever it is that she did not want to draw attention to.
One would very much like to know whose garment lay there. Perhaps not too well (at least until a reasonable explanation of panty-loss presented itself), but definitely in nearer proximity. She can't weigh more than ninety pounds (that rules out most white women), and judging by the evidence of stretch and fabric-stress, there may be some discrete curvature.
Several weeks ago a pretty young miss got off the bus at the same stop as myself. While I paused to light up, she skipped on ahead up the hill. Petite. Winsome. Energetic.
And be-skirted.
If it was the same young lady, I am not entirely surprised that she lost her panties. Did I mention that she was petite? Very much so. In her size, almost anything is far too roomy.
Teenagers, no matter how unlike white women in size, do not like shopping in the children's department.
I do not think they make nice panties for such petite women. I will have to investigate.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[I often smoke outdoors. Savage Kitten does not appreciate the perfume of fine Oriental blends, and I had a Charatan filled with Presbyterian Mixture going.]
The panties were small. The panties were a very pretty raspberry-rose. The panties were empty.
One does not often come across a clean and entirely unoccupied pair of panties.
Usually, when one stumbles across panties on the public street, they are either disreputable looking and in the gutter, or filled with a (briskly) moving posterior.
If there is merit to the posterior the latter situation is preferable.
[This is mostly speculative, you understand. I do not spend much time thinking about panties, nor strive much to see them, but merely gratefully note them in passing. It is a benefit to no longer being allowed to smoke at the office or inside cafés. This is the unintended brighter side of anti-smoking regulations.]
These panties were exceptionally reputable looking.
One has to wonder how a nice pair of panties end up on the pavement.
Did the young lady wearing them suddenly decide to go commando? Were they a spare that fell out of a rushing schoolgirl's backpack?
Were several teenagers horsing around? Was it a dare? Did someone angry run off pantyless?
Did she rush out of the house before fully dressed? There was something she forgot? Was she gaily waving them from her window at a beau?
Maybe they were drenched with perfume as a memento?
Too loose, perhaps, they may have slipped off accidentally as the wearer hurried up the hill.
She could have been too embarrassed to repossess them and thus draw attention to whatever it is that she did not want to draw attention to.
One would very much like to know whose garment lay there. Perhaps not too well (at least until a reasonable explanation of panty-loss presented itself), but definitely in nearer proximity. She can't weigh more than ninety pounds (that rules out most white women), and judging by the evidence of stretch and fabric-stress, there may be some discrete curvature.
Several weeks ago a pretty young miss got off the bus at the same stop as myself. While I paused to light up, she skipped on ahead up the hill. Petite. Winsome. Energetic.
And be-skirted.
If it was the same young lady, I am not entirely surprised that she lost her panties. Did I mention that she was petite? Very much so. In her size, almost anything is far too roomy.
Teenagers, no matter how unlike white women in size, do not like shopping in the children's department.
I do not think they make nice panties for such petite women. I will have to investigate.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, August 28, 2008
LONG DISTANCE MASOCHISM
One of my salesreps just called. He wanted to know how a particular customer was doing. It seems like a normal question, and I do appreciate it immensely when my salesreps call me BEFORE selling ten thousand dollars worth of goods to some non-paying hoser - who, given that it's a non-paying hoser who never answers my calls, I am averse to giving merchandise on net terms.
[Net terms: buy now, pay later. N30 means that you have a month from invoice-date to pay, N60 means two months. Net terms are a privilege. Net thirty is fairly normal. Net ninety is not part of my vocabulary.]
Salesreps genuinely hate it when a week after they persuaded the hoser to place a large order, the hoser calls 'em up screaming that Bucket-O-Monkeys Inc. rudely REFUSES to give them net terms, and wants a prepayment!
"A prepayment, how dare they, I am the best customer they have in Outer Sasquatch! I demand net sixty or balls!"
[Bucket-O-Monkeys is not our real name, please understand. But it could have been.]
Okay. Balls it is.
You would be surprised how many customers do not grasp the operative concept. If it is a given that I have to call them, I would much rather call them for a prepayment before the stuff leaves our warehouse, than after my boss has asked me why that hoser in Outer Sasquatch is three months past-due.
[It's also more efficient - one confident call before shipment, or half a dozen horribly frustrating ones later.]
Yes, I truly love talking to the nice young teenage girls they have hired to staff the store for the season - you would not believe how good I have gotten at talking to teenage girls on the phone - they no longer burst into tears, and some of them sound absolutely giggly afterwards - but on a scale of one to ten, as far as effective communication is concerned, it is two up from pinhead.
Same goes for monetary results - if Jennifer, Amber, or Tiffany answers, I know that I'll have to call back at least three more times before I get a human being. Let alone one who can pay an invoice.
I love my job.
Part of it is indeed the giggly teenage voices in Outer Sasquatch.
Truly.
The salesrep who called me just now was inquiring about a particular customer, and was horribly disappointed that the customer was clean & current, and that I had actually shipped merchandise recently.
See, there are TWO stores that sell our stuff in Outer Sasquatch. And he was visiting the other one.
[Net terms: buy now, pay later. N30 means that you have a month from invoice-date to pay, N60 means two months. Net terms are a privilege. Net thirty is fairly normal. Net ninety is not part of my vocabulary.]
Salesreps genuinely hate it when a week after they persuaded the hoser to place a large order, the hoser calls 'em up screaming that Bucket-O-Monkeys Inc. rudely REFUSES to give them net terms, and wants a prepayment!
"A prepayment, how dare they, I am the best customer they have in Outer Sasquatch! I demand net sixty or balls!"
[Bucket-O-Monkeys is not our real name, please understand. But it could have been.]
Okay. Balls it is.
You would be surprised how many customers do not grasp the operative concept. If it is a given that I have to call them, I would much rather call them for a prepayment before the stuff leaves our warehouse, than after my boss has asked me why that hoser in Outer Sasquatch is three months past-due.
[It's also more efficient - one confident call before shipment, or half a dozen horribly frustrating ones later.]
Yes, I truly love talking to the nice young teenage girls they have hired to staff the store for the season - you would not believe how good I have gotten at talking to teenage girls on the phone - they no longer burst into tears, and some of them sound absolutely giggly afterwards - but on a scale of one to ten, as far as effective communication is concerned, it is two up from pinhead.
Same goes for monetary results - if Jennifer, Amber, or Tiffany answers, I know that I'll have to call back at least three more times before I get a human being. Let alone one who can pay an invoice.
I love my job.
Part of it is indeed the giggly teenage voices in Outer Sasquatch.
Truly.
The salesrep who called me just now was inquiring about a particular customer, and was horribly disappointed that the customer was clean & current, and that I had actually shipped merchandise recently.
See, there are TWO stores that sell our stuff in Outer Sasquatch. And he was visiting the other one.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
JOHN COTTON: FINE OLD REEK
Sometimes you just don't know where things have gone. You get distracted, and several years later, when you finally remember what you were doing, something you expected to see in a familiar place has completely disappeared.
That especially applies to certain fine old pipe tobacco brands.
Back in the early 1980's John Cotton's was one of the names which suddenly started disappearing. There used to be three types: No. 1, Nos. 1 and 2 Medium, and John Cotton's Smyrna. All were blends of flue-cured leaf with Turkish and Latakia.
[The first listed was mild, the second relatively full, and the third was a full English mixture with a more noticeable Turkish and Latakia portion.]
I have recently been smoking from a nearly forty year old tin of the Nos. 1 and 2 Medium. At this point I have enough left from this batch for maybe six more bowls. I'm keeping the tin once I'm finished - it's a lovely simple enameled commercial tin which lists the manufacturer's address, as if an eternal constant, ever unchangeable, on the side: John Cotton Ltd., 65 Kingsway, London W.C.2
JOHN COTTON'S
Nos. 1 and 2 Medium
TRADITIONAL ENGLISH MIXTURE
The tobacco is a lovely dark purple-black in hue, and looks slightly oily. The various components are no longer recognizable, save for what appears to be a stoved Virginia, which is also suggested by the taste.
It is an extremely enjoyable smoke, but, having aged for a generation plus, it has no peaks or valleys left. Recognizably still a medium English style blend with good Oriental (Turkish or Greek ) tobaccos.
Alas, I cannot guess what the other Virginias are, and the Latakia has faded into a Levantine haze. Smooth, mild and perfumy, it reduces to an exceptionally fine white ash. There is no tongue bite. The tin aroma is like wine and also like early spring.
It does not call any other tobaccos to mind, nor spark any memories of previous smokes; the tobacco is too aged for that to occur. I do wish I had more of the same vintage, though. It is like smoking precious incense. The hundred gramme tin I recall stashed in the box near the door dates from 1981, and it will be a while before I open that - there is no more.
John Cotton's Ltd claimed to have made tobacco since 1770. Gallaher's from Belfast owned the John Cotton trademark for many years. Gallaher's was acquired by Japan Tobacco in April 2007. Primarily for the cigarette brands.
The nearest modern equivalents to the John Cotton's pipe tobaccos are probably G. L. Pease blends.
For the Nos. 1 and 2 Medium and the John Cotton's Smyrna, I think you should try Charing Cross and Abingdon.
I have also heard excellent reports about G. L. Pease's Odyssey, but haven't smoked any yet. It, too, is probably a good equivalent - but like all GLP's, smoke it for its own sake.
Butera's Royal Vintage Latakia No. 2 is apparently a near-duplicate of the John Cotton No. 1. Or so I have been told. I have to wonder, though.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
That especially applies to certain fine old pipe tobacco brands.
Back in the early 1980's John Cotton's was one of the names which suddenly started disappearing. There used to be three types: No. 1, Nos. 1 and 2 Medium, and John Cotton's Smyrna. All were blends of flue-cured leaf with Turkish and Latakia.
[The first listed was mild, the second relatively full, and the third was a full English mixture with a more noticeable Turkish and Latakia portion.]
I have recently been smoking from a nearly forty year old tin of the Nos. 1 and 2 Medium. At this point I have enough left from this batch for maybe six more bowls. I'm keeping the tin once I'm finished - it's a lovely simple enameled commercial tin which lists the manufacturer's address, as if an eternal constant, ever unchangeable, on the side: John Cotton Ltd., 65 Kingsway, London W.C.2
JOHN COTTON'S
Nos. 1 and 2 Medium
TRADITIONAL ENGLISH MIXTURE
The tobacco is a lovely dark purple-black in hue, and looks slightly oily. The various components are no longer recognizable, save for what appears to be a stoved Virginia, which is also suggested by the taste.
It is an extremely enjoyable smoke, but, having aged for a generation plus, it has no peaks or valleys left. Recognizably still a medium English style blend with good Oriental (Turkish or Greek ) tobaccos.
Alas, I cannot guess what the other Virginias are, and the Latakia has faded into a Levantine haze. Smooth, mild and perfumy, it reduces to an exceptionally fine white ash. There is no tongue bite. The tin aroma is like wine and also like early spring.
It does not call any other tobaccos to mind, nor spark any memories of previous smokes; the tobacco is too aged for that to occur. I do wish I had more of the same vintage, though. It is like smoking precious incense. The hundred gramme tin I recall stashed in the box near the door dates from 1981, and it will be a while before I open that - there is no more.
John Cotton's Ltd claimed to have made tobacco since 1770. Gallaher's from Belfast owned the John Cotton trademark for many years. Gallaher's was acquired by Japan Tobacco in April 2007. Primarily for the cigarette brands.
The nearest modern equivalents to the John Cotton's pipe tobaccos are probably G. L. Pease blends.
For the Nos. 1 and 2 Medium and the John Cotton's Smyrna, I think you should try Charing Cross and Abingdon.
I have also heard excellent reports about G. L. Pease's Odyssey, but haven't smoked any yet. It, too, is probably a good equivalent - but like all GLP's, smoke it for its own sake.
Butera's Royal Vintage Latakia No. 2 is apparently a near-duplicate of the John Cotton No. 1. Or so I have been told. I have to wonder, though.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
MESSAGE FOR THE DEPARTED
A very large part of my job is collecting unpaid invoices - I make collection calls. This is strictly business to business, it's not like I call up the widow Jones and tell her 'pay up bitch or we're repossessing your couch', nor do I threaten to break people's kneecaps. Threats have not been part of the legitimate collection world for quite a while, except in Texas (don't ask about Texan collection agencies - they are the scum of the universe). And the whole field is rather well regulated - except in Texas (Texan collection agencies are the scum of the universe - but you already knew that).
Most commercial collection involves one company trying to get another company to pay a past-due amount. Reminders that "hey, that invoice isn't getting any younger you know, and if you really want to keep buying our marvelous wonderful world-saving products that come with buckets of good karma and puppies! - Huggable puppies! - you probably should pay us now".
Please move that scrap of paper to the top of your to-do pile. Give me a call, tell me the payment is being processed, and listen to me squeal with excitement and gratitude.
Occasionally I leave anxious queries in their voicemail along the lines of: "why haven't you called back? I left ten messages for you over the last week, and I was starting to think something awful had happened! You scared me! I was so concerned!!!"
Whatever your crappy reason for not paying quite just yet, fercrapsakes call me! Let me know what's going on, so I don't forward your file to a collection agency in Texas.
Sometimes the miserable miserly hosers have a good reason for not calling back.
While trying to track down a severely delinquent non-payer, I ran across a lovely obituary. Of my customer. She passed away three months ago. She was only thirty four years old, and she left behind grieving parents, grandparents, siblings, cousins, and nephews and nieces. She also had many friends, who keenly miss her.
Her store was closed for a few weeks, but is open again - her loving kinfolk are running it in memory of her (she had opened the business only half a year before her untimely death).
I am very glad I ran across that obituary.
Not because she is dead, but because I now know why she didn't return my phone calls to her cell phone number. And when I call her store, I will not ask to speak with her, but will just gently bring up the subject of an invoice that unfortunately got overlooked.
Sometimes the nice people I deal with have good reasons for not calling back.
===============================
The deceased left behind a recipe for pumpkin bars. I am not fond of pumpkin (nor of the other main ingredient (oats).
Pumpkin Bars
6 cups whole oats
2 cups all-purpose flour
4 eggs
1/3 cup honey
1/4 cup molasses
1 1/2 cups canned pumpkin
2 1/2 cups yogurt
1 - 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon (she left cinnamon out of the recipe, but it really should be included).
Mix all ingredients. Decant into an oiled 9 x 13 baking dish. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. Let cool for 10 minutes and cut into squares. Keep refrigerated in a closed container. They will keep for about 6 weeks.
Despite my misgivings (oats? That's what horses eat!) and opposition to the evil imperialist pumpkin hegemony, I will probably make these at some point in the future.
It seems like a good way to remember.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Most commercial collection involves one company trying to get another company to pay a past-due amount. Reminders that "hey, that invoice isn't getting any younger you know, and if you really want to keep buying our marvelous wonderful world-saving products that come with buckets of good karma and puppies! - Huggable puppies! - you probably should pay us now".
Please move that scrap of paper to the top of your to-do pile. Give me a call, tell me the payment is being processed, and listen to me squeal with excitement and gratitude.
Occasionally I leave anxious queries in their voicemail along the lines of: "why haven't you called back? I left ten messages for you over the last week, and I was starting to think something awful had happened! You scared me! I was so concerned!!!"
Whatever your crappy reason for not paying quite just yet, fercrapsakes call me! Let me know what's going on, so I don't forward your file to a collection agency in Texas.
Sometimes the miserable miserly hosers have a good reason for not calling back.
While trying to track down a severely delinquent non-payer, I ran across a lovely obituary. Of my customer. She passed away three months ago. She was only thirty four years old, and she left behind grieving parents, grandparents, siblings, cousins, and nephews and nieces. She also had many friends, who keenly miss her.
Her store was closed for a few weeks, but is open again - her loving kinfolk are running it in memory of her (she had opened the business only half a year before her untimely death).
I am very glad I ran across that obituary.
Not because she is dead, but because I now know why she didn't return my phone calls to her cell phone number. And when I call her store, I will not ask to speak with her, but will just gently bring up the subject of an invoice that unfortunately got overlooked.
Sometimes the nice people I deal with have good reasons for not calling back.
===============================
The deceased left behind a recipe for pumpkin bars. I am not fond of pumpkin (nor of the other main ingredient (oats).
Pumpkin Bars
6 cups whole oats
2 cups all-purpose flour
4 eggs
1/3 cup honey
1/4 cup molasses
1 1/2 cups canned pumpkin
2 1/2 cups yogurt
1 - 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon (she left cinnamon out of the recipe, but it really should be included).
Mix all ingredients. Decant into an oiled 9 x 13 baking dish. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. Let cool for 10 minutes and cut into squares. Keep refrigerated in a closed container. They will keep for about 6 weeks.
Despite my misgivings (oats? That's what horses eat!) and opposition to the evil imperialist pumpkin hegemony, I will probably make these at some point in the future.
It seems like a good way to remember.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, August 25, 2008
TOHOROS HA MISHPACHA
Rather than a long disquisition about the technicalities of a disquieting subject, a brief excursus into left field.
Savage Kitten woke up yesterday morning feeling out of sorts. Savage Kitten needed Ibuprofen. And had run out. And was too crampy to walk to Walgreens. And announced her intention to spend all day in bed belly-aching about an angry porcupine with high heels, beads, and granny glasses who was stomping around her insides doing the rumba.
She slept fitfully during most of the day instead.
So, rather than joining some friends snarking an Edomite cultural manifestation elsewhere in the city, I stayed home. I did not see the porcupine, and have no evidence that an angry dancing porcupine with beads, granny glasses, and high heels, actually even exists, but I will take it on faith that yes she does indeed visit every month.
Ibuprofen is a miracle drug.
By evening Savage Kitten had recovered enough to partake of some curried lamb haunch.
What I missed out on at the Edomite cultural thing was Ahmed calling someone a nazi. Ahmed subsequently calling the cops, who came by and noted that Ahmed was losing his marbles. Ahmed calling the same someone a colonialist racist. The cops tisk-tisking and leaving. Ahmed accusing someone of stealing his falafel. Ahmed taking offense at kippot. Ahmed being chided for his dietary habits. Ahmed invectivicating about the war. Ahmed stuttering. Ahmed hearing voices. Ahmed blinking obsessively while his eyes rolled back. Ahmed distributing literature calling major politicians zionazi stooges and demon spawn. Ahmed marxistically praising Ahmedinejad and Hugo Chavez, both of whom are saints and prophets by Allah! Ahmed demanding that Jinns and Jews leave the park, and take their evil wires with them! Ahmed having a worthwhile and heartfelt exchange of opinions with Borat (Borat being the catch-all term for less-than-coherent members of our side). Ahmed chanting for Ralph Nader and Cindy Sheehan, and Ahmed then hearing the space-ships coming to carry him home.
It sounds like fun. I would've liked to have been there. But sometimes nidah-zivah-zavah take precedence.
Savage Kitten woke up yesterday morning feeling out of sorts. Savage Kitten needed Ibuprofen. And had run out. And was too crampy to walk to Walgreens. And announced her intention to spend all day in bed belly-aching about an angry porcupine with high heels, beads, and granny glasses who was stomping around her insides doing the rumba.
She slept fitfully during most of the day instead.
So, rather than joining some friends snarking an Edomite cultural manifestation elsewhere in the city, I stayed home. I did not see the porcupine, and have no evidence that an angry dancing porcupine with beads, granny glasses, and high heels, actually even exists, but I will take it on faith that yes she does indeed visit every month.
Ibuprofen is a miracle drug.
By evening Savage Kitten had recovered enough to partake of some curried lamb haunch.
What I missed out on at the Edomite cultural thing was Ahmed calling someone a nazi. Ahmed subsequently calling the cops, who came by and noted that Ahmed was losing his marbles. Ahmed calling the same someone a colonialist racist. The cops tisk-tisking and leaving. Ahmed accusing someone of stealing his falafel. Ahmed taking offense at kippot. Ahmed being chided for his dietary habits. Ahmed invectivicating about the war. Ahmed stuttering. Ahmed hearing voices. Ahmed blinking obsessively while his eyes rolled back. Ahmed distributing literature calling major politicians zionazi stooges and demon spawn. Ahmed marxistically praising Ahmedinejad and Hugo Chavez, both of whom are saints and prophets by Allah! Ahmed demanding that Jinns and Jews leave the park, and take their evil wires with them! Ahmed having a worthwhile and heartfelt exchange of opinions with Borat (Borat being the catch-all term for less-than-coherent members of our side). Ahmed chanting for Ralph Nader and Cindy Sheehan, and Ahmed then hearing the space-ships coming to carry him home.
It sounds like fun. I would've liked to have been there. But sometimes nidah-zivah-zavah take precedence.
CALLING BRUCE!
This blog is not the only one with a certain philosphical theme running through it.
Spiros, Grant, Lev, Graham - go here:
Who is in charge of the sheep-dip?
[If you have speakers, turn them on now.]
You'll be glad you did.
The trop follows standard Western Ashkenazic minhag and pronunciation, and the poskim referenced are Conservative or Left-wing Modern Orthodox at best -- hardly the kind of people that the shtrenge haredisten of Lakewood would call rabbonim. Blasted Calvinists!
Note: the link is to a post on a friend's blog:
Waarheid gezocht, vreemds gevonden
If you do not visit that blog frequently, you should. It is good for your mental health.
Spiros, Grant, Lev, Graham - go here:
Who is in charge of the sheep-dip?
[If you have speakers, turn them on now.]
You'll be glad you did.
The trop follows standard Western Ashkenazic minhag and pronunciation, and the poskim referenced are Conservative or Left-wing Modern Orthodox at best -- hardly the kind of people that the shtrenge haredisten of Lakewood would call rabbonim. Blasted Calvinists!
Note: the link is to a post on a friend's blog:
Waarheid gezocht, vreemds gevonden
If you do not visit that blog frequently, you should. It is good for your mental health.
Friday, August 22, 2008
EVIL MONKEY!
Over five years ago I brought a monkey home. No, not a wild-beast monkey. He is not an actual protein and bone animal. But he is a very real monkey none the less.
He is missing a leg.
I do not know how he lost the leg. He was in the product-development lab for over a year, palling around with Elmo the dancing street-alcoholic (who carried a gag glass of bourbon in his hands, and had a cigarette in his mouth), and occasionally pan-handled on the shelf with deconstructed Barbie dolls (sluts!) for spare change. He never said much.
Elmo would sometimes dance, or obey the prompting of a boot and fly across the room.
The head of the marketing department "borrowed" the monkey for a Halloween pumpkin-carving project. He reappeared with a gashed neck, dripping ketchup, in the jaws of an orange ghoul. For a few days the carved pumpkins were at the front desk. They moved to the kitchen by mid-week, and ended up in the garbage Friday afternoon.
Which is where I found the monkey.
Monkeys do NOT belong in landfill.
I took the one-legged monkey home. He soon acquired a name (U-rasmus), and started developing..... personality. A lot of personality.
He cannot remember the leg incident, but sometimes has nightmares about pumpkins (the gash was stitched up, and has healed just fine, thank you).
Urasmus likes to play 'Fay Wray' with the little she-sheep (she hates it). He wishes to squish the sheep's boy friend - a handpuppet spider - because he dislikes bugs. He has discovered the saw and threatens Little George and the Ham-STAR.
The monkey disrespects the froad, disses the kitten, and fights with the sock-goat.
He demands to go the all-banana restaurant, and tries to steal my wallet. My bowl of laundry money is relatively safe, as unlike other monkeys, he cannot climb very well (not because of the missing limb - probably ADD). He is an all-round thoroughly disreputable chap, and often has to spend time in the corner. He fears Ms. Bruin, who is the head-roomie, and he trembles when she gives him that stern look of disapproval.
I mention all of this in connection with an article that Savage Kitten sent me from our local newspaper. See here: Urasmus!!!
Quote: "A security guard spotted the monkey near ticket gates in Shibuya Station........ around 30 policemen surrounded the area and attempted to snare it with a variety of nets, as commuters crowded around and snapped pictures with their cell phones.
The standoff ended when the monkey climbed down and dashed out of the station, with several policeman and local TV crews in tow. News reports said the monkey was last seen heading in the direction of nearby Yoyogi Park."
There are two photos in that article. I cannot tell whether the monkey in question has four limbs or just three. If it is four, I wonder where he got the prosthetic.
Turns out the little devil is much cleverer than I thought. I guess I'll have to put my wallet in a secret place every night from now on.
He is missing a leg.
I do not know how he lost the leg. He was in the product-development lab for over a year, palling around with Elmo the dancing street-alcoholic (who carried a gag glass of bourbon in his hands, and had a cigarette in his mouth), and occasionally pan-handled on the shelf with deconstructed Barbie dolls (sluts!) for spare change. He never said much.
Elmo would sometimes dance, or obey the prompting of a boot and fly across the room.
The head of the marketing department "borrowed" the monkey for a Halloween pumpkin-carving project. He reappeared with a gashed neck, dripping ketchup, in the jaws of an orange ghoul. For a few days the carved pumpkins were at the front desk. They moved to the kitchen by mid-week, and ended up in the garbage Friday afternoon.
Which is where I found the monkey.
Monkeys do NOT belong in landfill.
I took the one-legged monkey home. He soon acquired a name (U-rasmus), and started developing..... personality. A lot of personality.
He cannot remember the leg incident, but sometimes has nightmares about pumpkins (the gash was stitched up, and has healed just fine, thank you).
Urasmus likes to play 'Fay Wray' with the little she-sheep (she hates it). He wishes to squish the sheep's boy friend - a handpuppet spider - because he dislikes bugs. He has discovered the saw and threatens Little George and the Ham-STAR.
The monkey disrespects the froad, disses the kitten, and fights with the sock-goat.
He demands to go the all-banana restaurant, and tries to steal my wallet. My bowl of laundry money is relatively safe, as unlike other monkeys, he cannot climb very well (not because of the missing limb - probably ADD). He is an all-round thoroughly disreputable chap, and often has to spend time in the corner. He fears Ms. Bruin, who is the head-roomie, and he trembles when she gives him that stern look of disapproval.
I mention all of this in connection with an article that Savage Kitten sent me from our local newspaper. See here: Urasmus!!!
Quote: "A security guard spotted the monkey near ticket gates in Shibuya Station........ around 30 policemen surrounded the area and attempted to snare it with a variety of nets, as commuters crowded around and snapped pictures with their cell phones.
The standoff ended when the monkey climbed down and dashed out of the station, with several policeman and local TV crews in tow. News reports said the monkey was last seen heading in the direction of nearby Yoyogi Park."
There are two photos in that article. I cannot tell whether the monkey in question has four limbs or just three. If it is four, I wonder where he got the prosthetic.
Turns out the little devil is much cleverer than I thought. I guess I'll have to put my wallet in a secret place every night from now on.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
YOUR KINDLY BENEVOLENCE
An item on e-kvetcher's blog ('Search for Emmes') reminded me of some of the things that people offer to charities. Not that his posting had anything to do with charities. It has no conceivable connection with the subject of this post, except in my mind.
[What can I say? It's my mind, and I'll do with it what I like.]
As some of you know, Savage Kitten works at a charitable organization. Part of her job involves listening to people who call to donate. Savage Kitten is not really a people person - I need to mention that, so that you will understand how this part of her job affects her. She does not like people. She does not like people who have blinkers on their minds. She does not like people who do not get to the point, nor people who do not get the point. These, precisely, are the people who call up wishing to donate objects. It is unfortunate.
[Savage Kitten is my long-time companion, helpmeet, and better half. She is not a social creature. She has a keen head for math, an eye for detail, and a sharp sense of humour. But she is not a people person by any stretch of the imagination.]
What do people wish to donate?
They wish to donate mattresses ("it's only stained on ONE side!"), chairs ("one of the legs is a bit loose... well actually, it fell off"), computers ("I plugged it in and it still works!"), bookcases ("just needs new veneer"), refrigerators ("you have to pick it up right NOW!"), second hand coffins --- that was only one person with a coffin, but she really really wanted the charity to pick it up soon, because she was moving. It had barely been used.
Most charities do not have much storage space, do not have repair facilities, and do not have a dozen strong hairy men with trucks. Most charities are not geared towards helping you get rid of the stuff that you do not wish to pay someone to take down to the dump.
Charities like money.
Charities do not need six dented cans of ten-year old satin-finish sandpebble left over from your days as an apartment manager. Charities cannot use your old lawn mower, or the spare tire from a car you no longer own. Charities do not want five boxes of used clothing of doubtful cleanliness and nineteen sixties taste.
Charities do not take live animals (or dead ones). Golf clubs, lawn chairs, solvents? No thanks. Twelve boxes of nice wooly sweaters knitted by the retired ladies benevolent guild? Errm, no thank you so sorry.
Day-old cakes from Norma's Wedding Bakery? Used baby clothes? Pale green tuxedoes and purple ruffled shirts? No, no, no!
Please send money.
Yes, this is San Francisco - but no one really wants to touch your three dozen pairs of crotchless bluejeans.
If, on the other hand, you decide to sell a kidney and donate the proceeds, most charities will not blink an eye. Do so, and Savage Kitten will even send you a VERY NICE thank you card signed by the executive director, AND a plaque announcing that YOU (yes, you!) are a member of the Cavalcade of Angels™ (donors who have contributed over a thousand dollars).
Heck, sell two kidneys. Thank you! You are now an angel.
[What can I say? It's my mind, and I'll do with it what I like.]
As some of you know, Savage Kitten works at a charitable organization. Part of her job involves listening to people who call to donate. Savage Kitten is not really a people person - I need to mention that, so that you will understand how this part of her job affects her. She does not like people. She does not like people who have blinkers on their minds. She does not like people who do not get to the point, nor people who do not get the point. These, precisely, are the people who call up wishing to donate objects. It is unfortunate.
[Savage Kitten is my long-time companion, helpmeet, and better half. She is not a social creature. She has a keen head for math, an eye for detail, and a sharp sense of humour. But she is not a people person by any stretch of the imagination.]
What do people wish to donate?
They wish to donate mattresses ("it's only stained on ONE side!"), chairs ("one of the legs is a bit loose... well actually, it fell off"), computers ("I plugged it in and it still works!"), bookcases ("just needs new veneer"), refrigerators ("you have to pick it up right NOW!"), second hand coffins --- that was only one person with a coffin, but she really really wanted the charity to pick it up soon, because she was moving. It had barely been used.
Most charities do not have much storage space, do not have repair facilities, and do not have a dozen strong hairy men with trucks. Most charities are not geared towards helping you get rid of the stuff that you do not wish to pay someone to take down to the dump.
Charities like money.
Charities do not need six dented cans of ten-year old satin-finish sandpebble left over from your days as an apartment manager. Charities cannot use your old lawn mower, or the spare tire from a car you no longer own. Charities do not want five boxes of used clothing of doubtful cleanliness and nineteen sixties taste.
Charities do not take live animals (or dead ones). Golf clubs, lawn chairs, solvents? No thanks. Twelve boxes of nice wooly sweaters knitted by the retired ladies benevolent guild? Errm, no thank you so sorry.
Day-old cakes from Norma's Wedding Bakery? Used baby clothes? Pale green tuxedoes and purple ruffled shirts? No, no, no!
Please send money.
Yes, this is San Francisco - but no one really wants to touch your three dozen pairs of crotchless bluejeans.
If, on the other hand, you decide to sell a kidney and donate the proceeds, most charities will not blink an eye. Do so, and Savage Kitten will even send you a VERY NICE thank you card signed by the executive director, AND a plaque announcing that YOU (yes, you!) are a member of the Cavalcade of Angels™ (donors who have contributed over a thousand dollars).
Heck, sell two kidneys. Thank you! You are now an angel.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
SOMETHING ABOUT CHEAP TEQUILA AND LOUD MUSIC
The Sales Department is hosting a mid-day fiesta. There are tortilla chips and gaucamole, plus buckets of salsa, in the big conference room.
There are seven large frat-boys wearing sombreros wandering about.
There are full-strength margaritas.
Brain-freeze time. With limes and a blender.
And there is loud music. Very loud mariachi music.
The working day is over. At least for half of the company. Ole, rabbosai, ole.
There are seven large frat-boys wearing sombreros wandering about.
There are full-strength margaritas.
Brain-freeze time. With limes and a blender.
And there is loud music. Very loud mariachi music.
The working day is over. At least for half of the company. Ole, rabbosai, ole.
DEGENERATE MAN OF GOD
Smells richly Oriental. There is a large amount of Turkish leaf, but not very much Latakia. When lit, it is likely to scare women and little children.
[Note: for the big mac daddy of all Oriental tobacco posts, go here: Balkan Sobranie
If you love Turks, you have loved Balkan Sobranie mixture. Yenidje, Djubec, Smyrna, Samsoun - it's all good.]
PRESBYTERIAN MIXTURE
William P. Solomon
This famous mixture was originally blended for a Presbyterian minister in Scotland - hence the title of this post. Presbyterians are dour and conservative people, not given to excess. At least in public. This blend betrays the minister in question to be a degenerate orgiast - hence the title of this post.
Well, maybe not actually given to orgies. But extremely self-indulgent. Decadent even. He lived very well, judging by the luxurious quality of this Balkan-style blend. After sticking this in your pipe, it is only natural to suspect him of secret vices or public-school dormitory perversions.
The Turkish element dominates, nicely supported by good Virginia and a smidge of Latakia. There is some fire-cured Kentucky, which augments the smokiness. It is a very enjoyable tobacco.
It is no longer made in Britain but in Germany.
[Dieser vorzüglich Tabak wurde in der zeit um 1910 eigens und ausschließlich für den Geistlichen Dr. John White, einem Würdenträger der Schottishen Hochkirche, gefertigt. Er machte Stanley Baldwin, - Britischer Premierminister in den Jahren um 1923 and später - mit dem Tabak bekannt. Dem Earl Baldwin schmeckte die Mixture so gut, daß er regelmäßig damit beliefert wurde. Er machte auch den Vorschlag, den Tabak PRESBYTERIAN MIXTURE zu nennen.]
The only problem is that it is tinned very moist. It takes quite a bit of time to dry it to smoking level. Having aired it well, close the tin tightly and set it aside for a few days before lighting up, in order that the flavour elements stabilize and re-distribute through the tobacco.
Smoke this while you are young and dashing. Or at all ages, if you are a rake.
Was the minister perhaps on the board of a girls reformatory? Canes and birches, oh lordy. A guilty pleasure. Wear a hair shirt while indulging.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[Note: for the big mac daddy of all Oriental tobacco posts, go here: Balkan Sobranie
If you love Turks, you have loved Balkan Sobranie mixture. Yenidje, Djubec, Smyrna, Samsoun - it's all good.]
PRESBYTERIAN MIXTURE
William P. Solomon
This famous mixture was originally blended for a Presbyterian minister in Scotland - hence the title of this post. Presbyterians are dour and conservative people, not given to excess. At least in public. This blend betrays the minister in question to be a degenerate orgiast - hence the title of this post.
Well, maybe not actually given to orgies. But extremely self-indulgent. Decadent even. He lived very well, judging by the luxurious quality of this Balkan-style blend. After sticking this in your pipe, it is only natural to suspect him of secret vices or public-school dormitory perversions.
The Turkish element dominates, nicely supported by good Virginia and a smidge of Latakia. There is some fire-cured Kentucky, which augments the smokiness. It is a very enjoyable tobacco.
It is no longer made in Britain but in Germany.
[Dieser vorzüglich Tabak wurde in der zeit um 1910 eigens und ausschließlich für den Geistlichen Dr. John White, einem Würdenträger der Schottishen Hochkirche, gefertigt. Er machte Stanley Baldwin, - Britischer Premierminister in den Jahren um 1923 and später - mit dem Tabak bekannt. Dem Earl Baldwin schmeckte die Mixture so gut, daß er regelmäßig damit beliefert wurde. Er machte auch den Vorschlag, den Tabak PRESBYTERIAN MIXTURE zu nennen.]
The only problem is that it is tinned very moist. It takes quite a bit of time to dry it to smoking level. Having aired it well, close the tin tightly and set it aside for a few days before lighting up, in order that the flavour elements stabilize and re-distribute through the tobacco.
Smoke this while you are young and dashing. Or at all ages, if you are a rake.
Was the minister perhaps on the board of a girls reformatory? Canes and birches, oh lordy. A guilty pleasure. Wear a hair shirt while indulging.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
GOOD LATAKIA DUMP
The term Latakia dump refers to tobacco mixtures with a very large proportion of Latakia. Teenagers love such products and will gladly fill their cheap briars with them; something about the strong smoky reek is like a religious revelation to the young.
Certainly when I was still a boy such products appealed immensely to me.
[For a description of my favourite boyhood tobacco, go here: Balkan SobranieIt was quite literally the gilding of a youthfull age. And I am nothing if not self referential. ]
Samuel Gawith's
COMMONWEALTH
Full Strength Mixture
Fifty percent fine Virginia, fifty percent Latakia.
I like this tobacco much more than I do.
What that last sentence really means is that I like the idea, the aroma, and the feel of this tobacco more than I like actually smoking it. Such a blend requires a bit of attention, lest it become a tongue-burner. And because of the amount of flue-cured leaf, it can and should be enjoyed at a higher moisture level than most smokers of Oriental blends are wont to do. Treat it like a Virginia blend, however, and be pleasantly surprised. It is like having butter go across the tongue, or filling your mouth with tweed and leather. It has a creaminess that goes well with sherry.
It is good. It is quite good.
But I wanted to like it a lot more than I do.
The tin aroma is richly sooty, the appearance of the tobacco between dusk and black. Not a tobacco to keep in the regular rotation, but one to open up occasionally for a fine dark day.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Certainly when I was still a boy such products appealed immensely to me.
[For a description of my favourite boyhood tobacco, go here: Balkan SobranieIt was quite literally the gilding of a youthfull age. And I am nothing if not self referential. ]
Samuel Gawith's
COMMONWEALTH
Full Strength Mixture
Fifty percent fine Virginia, fifty percent Latakia.
I like this tobacco much more than I do.
What that last sentence really means is that I like the idea, the aroma, and the feel of this tobacco more than I like actually smoking it. Such a blend requires a bit of attention, lest it become a tongue-burner. And because of the amount of flue-cured leaf, it can and should be enjoyed at a higher moisture level than most smokers of Oriental blends are wont to do. Treat it like a Virginia blend, however, and be pleasantly surprised. It is like having butter go across the tongue, or filling your mouth with tweed and leather. It has a creaminess that goes well with sherry.
It is good. It is quite good.
But I wanted to like it a lot more than I do.
The tin aroma is richly sooty, the appearance of the tobacco between dusk and black. Not a tobacco to keep in the regular rotation, but one to open up occasionally for a fine dark day.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A TAWDRY OLD TART
The trollop was great fun. But this girl is a bore to be with, and wears too much cologne; the cousin is not nearly as zesty as the bouncy trollop herself. More like a haggard German bar-woman, who probably has a brute named Günter as her boy-toy cum strong-arm guy. She is past her prime, if she ever had one.
Really, one wonders what others see in her, and thinks it would have been better not to have given in to that sassy come-hither winking; she looked better from a distance. Even her perfume seems cheap.
Alas.
ERINMORE MIXTURE
Murray Sons & Company Limited
Made in the EU under authority of Murray Sons & Company Ltd, Belfast.
Yes, it is very reminiscent of the Erinmore Flake (that being the enjoyable trollop referenced above). But on the whole, it seems like a rather pointless exercise in blending. Not that it is bad, just not in any way exciting.
The tobacco itself is not good enough or bold enough to make the famous whore-house reek tolerable, it tends to burn a bit hot, and while the smoke is satisfying enough as such things go, it is not worth going back to. It is a very well made but utterly pedestrian product.
After three bowls of this I wonder how I'm going to finish the tin.
[For a review of Erinmore Flake, see this post: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2008/07/my-dalliance-with-trollop.html ]
Erinmore Mixture is mostly blonde and brown Virginias, some black Cavendish, and that whorish odour. There is probably also some air-cured leaf in the blend, though nowhere is that mentioned.
It may take me a while to smoke it all. I shall not buy any more of this.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Really, one wonders what others see in her, and thinks it would have been better not to have given in to that sassy come-hither winking; she looked better from a distance. Even her perfume seems cheap.
Alas.
ERINMORE MIXTURE
Murray Sons & Company Limited
Made in the EU under authority of Murray Sons & Company Ltd, Belfast.
Yes, it is very reminiscent of the Erinmore Flake (that being the enjoyable trollop referenced above). But on the whole, it seems like a rather pointless exercise in blending. Not that it is bad, just not in any way exciting.
The tobacco itself is not good enough or bold enough to make the famous whore-house reek tolerable, it tends to burn a bit hot, and while the smoke is satisfying enough as such things go, it is not worth going back to. It is a very well made but utterly pedestrian product.
After three bowls of this I wonder how I'm going to finish the tin.
[For a review of Erinmore Flake, see this post: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2008/07/my-dalliance-with-trollop.html ]
Erinmore Mixture is mostly blonde and brown Virginias, some black Cavendish, and that whorish odour. There is probably also some air-cured leaf in the blend, though nowhere is that mentioned.
It may take me a while to smoke it all. I shall not buy any more of this.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
SACRIFICIAL ALTARS AND ARAB GARBAGE DUMPS
One of my correspondents avers that the United States government has chosen sides with the Palestinians and "are telling Israel to disregard its security and hand over Jerusalem", and even asserts that the US are "putting Israel on the sacrificial altar so that they can get the oil cheaper".
I take issue with these meshune points of view.
UNITED STATES SUPPORT
The statement that the US govt is "putting Israel on the sacrificial altar" is on the face of it clearly berserk. The US government is not sacrificing Israel - quite the contrary.
IF the US government supported the Pals instead of Israel, they would not give Israel five billion dollars a year, they would not sell arms and ammo to Israel, they would not give Israel access to advanced weapon systems, they would not share intelligence with Israel.
What may make it seem like the United States is not 100% behind Israel is that the United States is actively involved in the negotiations with the other side, and must occasionally attempt impartiality. Not all of Israel's points are entirely sustainable, and some of the Palestinian objections are valid. Even Israeli governments have recognized as much - hence the concessions that have been made.
What both Israeli and American governments have consistently attempted to achieve in their negotiations is quiescence from the Arab side, co-operation against the violent elements, and agreement on stable borders. These efforts are on-going.
Current negotiations will come to little, however, no matter how much Olmert or Rice seem willing to give up. Both the US and Israel know this.
The crux of the problem is purely Palestinian in nature.
Quiescence requires more stability and cohesion than the Palestinians are capable of while outside agents support dissenting (violent) elements in Palestinian society, whereas co-operation against the violent elements will bring everything from the assassination of moderates to full-scale Hamas-like takeovers and warlordism. These are virtually insurmountable obstacles.
The issue of the stable border is the real stumbling block. The Palestinians cannot accept any peace proposals that do not give them all of Jerusalem and more than their section of the territories. The Palestinian national cause is defined by Jerusalem and the territories, and the Arab world stands behind the Palestinians only to the extent that the Palestinians stand in opposition to Israel. To yield on either of these issues would make them enemies all over the Arab world and among their own ranks. A real peace agreement would mean the end of the Palestinian national cause, and force them to redefine themselves. At present it would be suicidal for them to do so.
The US government knows that the Palestinians cannot make peace, the Israeli government knows that the Palestinians cannot make peace, and the warlord entity in the territories knows that the Palestinians cannot make peace.
But all sides have an interest in pretending that peace is possible, and therefore the process must continue.
OIL
Oil is not a meaningful factor - the oil-Arabs can barely stand the Palestinians and will not change the price of oil based on their weal or woe. The price of oil is strictly determined by market forces. The Palestinians are not a market force.
Indonesia and Nigeria produce vast amounts of oil - they are not interested in the Palestinians. China and India consume vast amounts of oil - they too are not interested in the Palestinians. Kuwait produces huge amounts of oil, and cannot even tolerate the Palestinians.
Russia produces oil, Texas produces oil, Venezuela produces oil, Canada and Alaska produce oil - the Palestinians have nothing to do with their oil nor with who buys it at what price.
Stabbing Israel in the back would indeed give great joy to some of the Arabs, but it would not make the oil any less expensive.
The oil producing nations and the oil-consuming nations drive the market. Oil is sold at the highest price that the market will bear. No one, absolutely and utterly no one, sets prices based on Palestinians.
JERUSALEM
There is a difference between all of modern metropolitan Jerusalem and the actual historic city of Jerusalem.
Some Arab garbage dump twenty miles from the kosel may be part of the official municipality, but can by no stretch of the imagination be considered Jerusalem. No place significantly outside the historic city which is populated mainly by Arabs should realistically be included in Jerusalem.
But what is and what isn't Jerusalem is entirely beside the point - both the Arabs and the Israelis vehemently insist upon the broadest possible definition of Jerusalem, and both sides are utterly intent on keeping as many Arabs in Jerusalem as possible.
There is, consequently, no likely agreement on Jerusalem.
I take issue with these meshune points of view.
UNITED STATES SUPPORT
The statement that the US govt is "putting Israel on the sacrificial altar" is on the face of it clearly berserk. The US government is not sacrificing Israel - quite the contrary.
IF the US government supported the Pals instead of Israel, they would not give Israel five billion dollars a year, they would not sell arms and ammo to Israel, they would not give Israel access to advanced weapon systems, they would not share intelligence with Israel.
What may make it seem like the United States is not 100% behind Israel is that the United States is actively involved in the negotiations with the other side, and must occasionally attempt impartiality. Not all of Israel's points are entirely sustainable, and some of the Palestinian objections are valid. Even Israeli governments have recognized as much - hence the concessions that have been made.
What both Israeli and American governments have consistently attempted to achieve in their negotiations is quiescence from the Arab side, co-operation against the violent elements, and agreement on stable borders. These efforts are on-going.
Current negotiations will come to little, however, no matter how much Olmert or Rice seem willing to give up. Both the US and Israel know this.
The crux of the problem is purely Palestinian in nature.
Quiescence requires more stability and cohesion than the Palestinians are capable of while outside agents support dissenting (violent) elements in Palestinian society, whereas co-operation against the violent elements will bring everything from the assassination of moderates to full-scale Hamas-like takeovers and warlordism. These are virtually insurmountable obstacles.
The issue of the stable border is the real stumbling block. The Palestinians cannot accept any peace proposals that do not give them all of Jerusalem and more than their section of the territories. The Palestinian national cause is defined by Jerusalem and the territories, and the Arab world stands behind the Palestinians only to the extent that the Palestinians stand in opposition to Israel. To yield on either of these issues would make them enemies all over the Arab world and among their own ranks. A real peace agreement would mean the end of the Palestinian national cause, and force them to redefine themselves. At present it would be suicidal for them to do so.
The US government knows that the Palestinians cannot make peace, the Israeli government knows that the Palestinians cannot make peace, and the warlord entity in the territories knows that the Palestinians cannot make peace.
But all sides have an interest in pretending that peace is possible, and therefore the process must continue.
OIL
Oil is not a meaningful factor - the oil-Arabs can barely stand the Palestinians and will not change the price of oil based on their weal or woe. The price of oil is strictly determined by market forces. The Palestinians are not a market force.
Indonesia and Nigeria produce vast amounts of oil - they are not interested in the Palestinians. China and India consume vast amounts of oil - they too are not interested in the Palestinians. Kuwait produces huge amounts of oil, and cannot even tolerate the Palestinians.
Russia produces oil, Texas produces oil, Venezuela produces oil, Canada and Alaska produce oil - the Palestinians have nothing to do with their oil nor with who buys it at what price.
Stabbing Israel in the back would indeed give great joy to some of the Arabs, but it would not make the oil any less expensive.
The oil producing nations and the oil-consuming nations drive the market. Oil is sold at the highest price that the market will bear. No one, absolutely and utterly no one, sets prices based on Palestinians.
JERUSALEM
There is a difference between all of modern metropolitan Jerusalem and the actual historic city of Jerusalem.
Some Arab garbage dump twenty miles from the kosel may be part of the official municipality, but can by no stretch of the imagination be considered Jerusalem. No place significantly outside the historic city which is populated mainly by Arabs should realistically be included in Jerusalem.
But what is and what isn't Jerusalem is entirely beside the point - both the Arabs and the Israelis vehemently insist upon the broadest possible definition of Jerusalem, and both sides are utterly intent on keeping as many Arabs in Jerusalem as possible.
There is, consequently, no likely agreement on Jerusalem.
Monday, August 18, 2008
LIFE SUCKS AND BLOWS
I may have mentioned previously that Savage Kitten loves bad movies, yes?
In particular, I spoke of her fondness for Valley of The Dolls.
If you do not remember my writing that, read this:
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2008/08/singing-repulsive-art.html
It predates my two lengthy posts about the Balkan Sobranie mixture on August 6th and 7th ..... Which you might want to reread also, because Balkan Sobranie pipe tobacco was the absolute culmination of Western Civilization, as I'm sure you know.
Anyhow, Savage Kitten has a thing for bad movies. If she were gay and male, we would call it a taste for camp...... As it is, however, it is an inexplicable obsession.
I do not quite grasp obsessions, and I rather distrust them. They are foreign to me, I do not have any obsessions.
[Did you reread my Balkan Sobranie posts yet? You should. Trust me.]
This past Saturday afternoon I came home from whatever it is that goyishe Zionists do on Saturday to find her happily crooning the theme to Valley Of The Dolls. While sitting in front of the television. Watching the movie. Of which she has a brand-new copy on compact disc. It is digitally re-masterd ghastly, oh joy.
[And, pursuant the Balkan Sobranie mixture and other Balkan blends, you might like the Presbyterian Mixture - the tin aroma is richly Ottoman, there is a hint of Fire-Cured Kentucky, and a plentifullness of aged Virginia, in addition to what I estimate as being around thirty percent Turkish, supplemented by a soupcon of Latakia. Velvety, perfumy, and incense like. It's very old-fashioned.]
After dinner she put Valley Of the Dolls on again. I woke up Sunday morning to Valley Of The Dolls. I returned from an afternoon engagement, to find her watching it one more time. Obsessions are rather like venereal diseases, they flare up at the most upsetting times.
[You might need to air it out a bit first, it's packed very moist. Which will have affected how the tobaccos have interplayed and melded. ]
This time she was speaking all the lines before the characters on screen did so. I am afraid that she has memorized Valley Of The Dolls. Soon every conversation will be larded with doll-ese.
[Unlike with the Balkan Sobranie mixture, the smokiness of Presbyterian is not a Syrian or even Cyprian type, but more like candied peat with a hint of burning tire.]
She wasn't playing it this morning when I woke up. But she didn't need to - I could hear the blasted lyrics of "I'll Plant My Own Tree" in my head. Her hideous obsession with Valley Of The Dolls now haunts my dreams.
[The Fire-Cured Kentucky is what gives the tin-aroma of Presbyterian that confusing nasal hue - a hint of chocolate, a hint of burning compost. Or perhaps a heather element. This is not similar to Balkan Sobranie.]
I have a nasty suspicion that this evening, when I return, I will find her watching Valley Of The Dolls again. Nasty suspicion? Heck, I know I will. It is awful.
[The smell of the Kentucky with the aged Virginia confuses many smokers; it gives the blend a depth that Virginia alone could not. It is very similar in that way to the Arcadia, and to Constantinople - both of which have been unavailable for two decades. Though also much missed, neither has been nearly as lamented and be-rhapsodized as the Balkan Sobranie. Perhaps unjustly. Presbyterian at least keeps part of the tradition alive. Go ahead and buy some.]
Obsessions are evil.
[Try it. You'll be glad you did.]
In particular, I spoke of her fondness for Valley of The Dolls.
If you do not remember my writing that, read this:
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2008/08/singing-repulsive-art.html
It predates my two lengthy posts about the Balkan Sobranie mixture on August 6th and 7th ..... Which you might want to reread also, because Balkan Sobranie pipe tobacco was the absolute culmination of Western Civilization, as I'm sure you know.
Anyhow, Savage Kitten has a thing for bad movies. If she were gay and male, we would call it a taste for camp...... As it is, however, it is an inexplicable obsession.
I do not quite grasp obsessions, and I rather distrust them. They are foreign to me, I do not have any obsessions.
[Did you reread my Balkan Sobranie posts yet? You should. Trust me.]
This past Saturday afternoon I came home from whatever it is that goyishe Zionists do on Saturday to find her happily crooning the theme to Valley Of The Dolls. While sitting in front of the television. Watching the movie. Of which she has a brand-new copy on compact disc. It is digitally re-masterd ghastly, oh joy.
[And, pursuant the Balkan Sobranie mixture and other Balkan blends, you might like the Presbyterian Mixture - the tin aroma is richly Ottoman, there is a hint of Fire-Cured Kentucky, and a plentifullness of aged Virginia, in addition to what I estimate as being around thirty percent Turkish, supplemented by a soupcon of Latakia. Velvety, perfumy, and incense like. It's very old-fashioned.]
After dinner she put Valley Of the Dolls on again. I woke up Sunday morning to Valley Of The Dolls. I returned from an afternoon engagement, to find her watching it one more time. Obsessions are rather like venereal diseases, they flare up at the most upsetting times.
[You might need to air it out a bit first, it's packed very moist. Which will have affected how the tobaccos have interplayed and melded. ]
This time she was speaking all the lines before the characters on screen did so. I am afraid that she has memorized Valley Of The Dolls. Soon every conversation will be larded with doll-ese.
[Unlike with the Balkan Sobranie mixture, the smokiness of Presbyterian is not a Syrian or even Cyprian type, but more like candied peat with a hint of burning tire.]
She wasn't playing it this morning when I woke up. But she didn't need to - I could hear the blasted lyrics of "I'll Plant My Own Tree" in my head. Her hideous obsession with Valley Of The Dolls now haunts my dreams.
[The Fire-Cured Kentucky is what gives the tin-aroma of Presbyterian that confusing nasal hue - a hint of chocolate, a hint of burning compost. Or perhaps a heather element. This is not similar to Balkan Sobranie.]
I have a nasty suspicion that this evening, when I return, I will find her watching Valley Of The Dolls again. Nasty suspicion? Heck, I know I will. It is awful.
[The smell of the Kentucky with the aged Virginia confuses many smokers; it gives the blend a depth that Virginia alone could not. It is very similar in that way to the Arcadia, and to Constantinople - both of which have been unavailable for two decades. Though also much missed, neither has been nearly as lamented and be-rhapsodized as the Balkan Sobranie. Perhaps unjustly. Presbyterian at least keeps part of the tradition alive. Go ahead and buy some.]
Obsessions are evil.
[Try it. You'll be glad you did.]
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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,...
