Apparently, my readers have problems associating vicious tribal murder with something good to eat. The link between the bloodshed and the dinner may be too strong, too vibrant for them. Judging by the dearth of commentary under a recent post
[Please see here: HEAD-HUNTING CHICKEN. It is about a mild chicken dish which you would very much like to eat.]
Other than Grant Patel with his unique viewpoints, the only person who left a comment was Steg (dos iz nit der šteg) , who wrote:
"Sorry, man... associations with head-hunting aren't good for whetting my appetite."
I may have suggested to Steg (dos iz nit der šteg) and a few others that the dish would be perfect for Sukkos - It being an outdoorsy and primitive-dwelling associated holiday. Reminiscent, on one level, of living in the wilderness, rather like the tribal peoples in parts of Borneo still do. And a longhouse is like a sukkah, albeit a sukkah on pillars that raise the living quarters above the ground away from shrotzim and predators, and with a long common veranda, plus fire-pits, family quarters, and holes to ventilate and let out the smoke.
[Longhouse: Puranibo. Long common veranda: Daramba. Fire-pits; Kuipang. Family quarters: Balayak. Ventilation holes: Tingkapen.]
Besides, headhunting is a fine old tradition, and fine old traditions are always associated with food. Headhunting in more ways than one.
Taking heads has naught to do with cannibalism. The hunting down of other humans in this case is not to use their meat, but purely to utilize the powerful energy that is concentrated in their kapala. Think of it as harvesting batteries from a rival tribe downriver, a tribe with the utter chutzpah to compete with us for limited resources.
Whichever head gets taken will not be involved in planting fields, or gathering wild protein from the forest, or spying on us as we eat, wash by the river, or procreate. That head will not harm us nor use what we could use, but instead will inspire our crops to grow, our men to be virile, and our women to be fecund.
That head is far less use to us still attached to a living body from that other tribe, than nicely polished in its own specially made basket up in the rafters of our longhouse, watching us drinking rice wine and dancing during our festivals.
Steg, please reconsider. The association with headhunting is propitious, and will add to your pleasure. Yes?
NGABAENG PA BUNGA GALURA
[Evocation of the crimson flowers.]
Ulite gadis neang tandak dang kapala, ki bunga galura na parang; kranda na litenen sehi umbang-tasek, kasanakan na puranibo purno tan marido. Wirang wirang na kibong tagpulang mawangi na djuwang, ura-mura tan nila tuwa. Tagatso iha maalik-mera, neang dene enti sama wahana.
Ri tarang na parampui puwan puwan marakanadja, kalinda, kalintik; djenti-wata hu!
Gurumos ti taa pa lalaki wiyang banta pratama - palimanema lahang kaga, mata dingin laho. Bunoan impa dapet uba, kaingitan djadi taengso materem. Tuwang-tugeng maputi re rewanon, dagat magkareng sa lalang tan daon; neang luwa matadjato lelem sametek, karong wara djawonen wiyang mawo bala. Dahulo mata-li buwana entero, maale kabog sahadja. Uho.
[Translation: See the girls that dance with the heads, the crimson blossoms of battle; the noise of the watchers is like breakers, the enjoyment of the longhouse is complete and zesty. The warriors of the group have returned smelling of the conflict, youthful-ruddy (ura-mura, also refers to the red of warrior turbans) as well as aged-blue (nila-tuwa, the wise elders who wear dark turbans). Success, verily, is appealing, whatever else is not likewise. In the glow of the torches women are high-breasted (marakanadja: prominent, of noses or breast; high, of trees, hats, banners, signs; projecting, of roofs, overhangs, bosoms), sleek (marakalinda: gently swelling, of breasts or low dunes; fading into the landscape or tree-line, of scrub and undergrowth; unremarkable of prominence, of roofs or gables), and perky (marakalintik: up-perked, of cute button-noses and nipples; sticking out slightly like knobs on furniture or trimmed branches; projecting somewhat like nuts and bolts); how utterly charming, oh!
The joyous noise does not reach the males who have fought for the first time - their hands are still clenched, their eyes remain cold, killing must create change, the memories become sharply graduated. Bones (tuwang: bones; tugeng: large pelvic and leg-bones) are whitening in the wild lands, blood dries on grass and leaves; the distance becomes dark entirely, now there are outsiders who wish for revenge. While before the entire world was within sight, now all is fog only. Oh!]
Headhunting is customarily limited to the period between the two lumeri festivals, when the rice-wine is ready, and agriculture is at a standstill - November, December, and January. This is the first part of the wet season, when tempers have not gone dull from the incessant rain, and men are still vibrantly alive. It is a joyous and cheerful season.
It is said that the Moshiach, when he comes, will come during sukkos.
But until he does, think of headhunting.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
TEMPTRESSES AND MARTINIS
The invite has gone out for the company holiday party later this year. The place where it will be held is the epitome of hip. As is fitting for a praedominantly younger crowd, in a happening place such as San Francisco.
This is how a reviewer describes it:
"A distinctive "you wouldn't know it was there" vibe on the outside keeps this place pretty under cover. I had a good time here at a friend's birthday party, where he had rented the back room, but in general the main lounge (both in crowd and in decor) was a little too slick for me. Think Marina via North Beach, and you kind of get the idea."
I remember the place in question very well. It's lao di fang to the max, man.
It used to be 'Allain's French Seafood'.
For a long time it was a taxi-bar with abstracted-looking Chinese ladies in skin-tight cheongsams, drinking champagne (sparkling non-alcoholic apple cider) bought by visiting gentlemen from Hong Kong and Taiwan at inordinate prices, or dancing with customers pressed up close.
At times a seedy place, where assignations were arranged and a large-handed matron kept the girls and the clientele in line.
[If only she could've kept the air-conditioning in line - It was always much too warm inside, also very humid, and far too dark. That last quality showed calculation.]
One of my business associates in the early eighties loved the joint - a Chinese businessman from Irian Jaya. It was the only place where women would talk to him. He often dragged me there to witness his conquests. I still shudder when I think of the troll-bitch matron. I no longer do business with that man, and have long since lost contact with him - he's probably still quoting Chinese soap operas in lieu of actual conversation.
[The fat Shanghainese gentleman from Taipei also came very often, but he went there purely to drink. They kept a bottle of very rare cognac just for him. His wife would've killed him if she knew - She was a very proper and controlling woman.]
Sometimes I miss the slithery cheongsams with slits up to here - the curvy thighs, the evident padding in the upper realms, wobbly high-heels, the faltering attempts at conversation, half of which eventually lead to furtive proposals that I teach someone English after hours.
By which they really did only mean 'teach English' - the inability to speak like an employable American woman was very keenly felt.
Mingled aromas of mixed floral perfumes, spilled cider, and stale food bring back seductive echoes from that era.
It was long before the mercenary Korean girls took over the taxi-bar circuit and Karaoke drove most such places out of business.
So of course I'm very much looking forward to the party. I do hope the martinis are as good as they were in 1983. Memories are what make the holidays special. I shall be viewing my innocent and unknowing coworkers through the coloured spectacles of the past.
Alas, none of them could get away with wearing a cheongsam, nor acting happy-tiddly on just apple cider.
This is how a reviewer describes it:
"A distinctive "you wouldn't know it was there" vibe on the outside keeps this place pretty under cover. I had a good time here at a friend's birthday party, where he had rented the back room, but in general the main lounge (both in crowd and in decor) was a little too slick for me. Think Marina via North Beach, and you kind of get the idea."
I remember the place in question very well. It's lao di fang to the max, man.
It used to be 'Allain's French Seafood'.
For a long time it was a taxi-bar with abstracted-looking Chinese ladies in skin-tight cheongsams, drinking champagne (sparkling non-alcoholic apple cider) bought by visiting gentlemen from Hong Kong and Taiwan at inordinate prices, or dancing with customers pressed up close.
At times a seedy place, where assignations were arranged and a large-handed matron kept the girls and the clientele in line.
[If only she could've kept the air-conditioning in line - It was always much too warm inside, also very humid, and far too dark. That last quality showed calculation.]
One of my business associates in the early eighties loved the joint - a Chinese businessman from Irian Jaya. It was the only place where women would talk to him. He often dragged me there to witness his conquests. I still shudder when I think of the troll-bitch matron. I no longer do business with that man, and have long since lost contact with him - he's probably still quoting Chinese soap operas in lieu of actual conversation.
[The fat Shanghainese gentleman from Taipei also came very often, but he went there purely to drink. They kept a bottle of very rare cognac just for him. His wife would've killed him if she knew - She was a very proper and controlling woman.]
Sometimes I miss the slithery cheongsams with slits up to here - the curvy thighs, the evident padding in the upper realms, wobbly high-heels, the faltering attempts at conversation, half of which eventually lead to furtive proposals that I teach someone English after hours.
By which they really did only mean 'teach English' - the inability to speak like an employable American woman was very keenly felt.
Mingled aromas of mixed floral perfumes, spilled cider, and stale food bring back seductive echoes from that era.
It was long before the mercenary Korean girls took over the taxi-bar circuit and Karaoke drove most such places out of business.
So of course I'm very much looking forward to the party. I do hope the martinis are as good as they were in 1983. Memories are what make the holidays special. I shall be viewing my innocent and unknowing coworkers through the coloured spectacles of the past.
Alas, none of them could get away with wearing a cheongsam, nor acting happy-tiddly on just apple cider.
A MIDDLE AGED MAN AND LITTLE CHILDREN
I love children, I really do. Especially when they are between three and five years old. But, lest you now jump to hire me as a baby-sitter, I should mention that there are reasons why people keep me away from their kids.
Some of my friends even send the kids out of town when I visit.
Others just make sure that the kinderlech get no opportunity to talk to me.
It: "Uncle BOTH, why do cars move?"
Me: 'They are desperately trying to get away from their butts.'
It: "Why?"
Me: 'Because they are full of gas - that's why they make those put-put-put sounds as they flee.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why are there no dinosaurs here?"
Me: 'San Francisco is too crowded for them so they all moved to Las Vegas.'
It: "What do dinosaurs eat?"
Me: 'Pizza, extra large, with all the toppings and piled with anchovies, just like everybody else in Vegas.'
It: "What do dinosaurs do?"
Me: 'They work as lounge singers in Las Vegas. They're very popular with old people.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why is the sky blue?"
Me: 'That was the cheapest colour the master of the universe could find when he repainted; it used to be puce.'
It: "What's puce?"
Me: 'Kinda like dog poo.'
It: "What is the master of the universe?"
Me: 'Someone with lots of spare time since the kids all moved away and no longer call.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why do we celebrate Jesus' birthday?"
Me: ' 'Cause we're close to Mexico.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why did Pooky scratch me?"
Me: 'He thought you were filled with candy, just like your older brother.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why did my aunt die?"
Me: 'Spite.'
See, there's a reason people keep their little darlings from talking to me.
I talk back.
This past weekend was fleet-week weekend here in San Francisco. Which always coincides with Columbus Day. This means drunken sailors, lots of goobers, and a loud air-show over the city featuring dare-devil biplanes and the Navy's own obnoxiously loud Blue-Angels. Lordy, I hate the sound of jets roaring overhead. It's a stupid, hubristic display of testicular exhibitionism.
But first, idiots doing loop-de-loops in biplanes.
It: "Uncle BOTH, what's that buzzing?"
Me: 'That's a very rare insect, the Columbus Day mosquito, which only comes one day a year.'
It: "Is it dangerous?"
Me: 'Oh, very. The Indians hate Columbus Day, because it killed so many of them.'
It: "Will it kill us?"
Me: 'No, Boruch Hashem, because we have large blue phallic fly-swatters that fly through the sky and chase it away. If you stare at the sky long enough you'll see them. But until then, you've got to run around in circles very fast so that the Columbus Day mosquitoes can't catch you. It hurts like heck when they do.'
It: "Uncle BOTH, why aren't you running?"
Me: 'Cause I'm not young and juicy but old and knackered - do you see anyone biting me? You, on the other hand.... so soft, so tender, so very very sweet. Quick, there's one right behind you!!! Run! Run! Run! Run faster! And make some noise!'
All things considered, I had a very fine weekend. Even though there is now yet one more kid I'm not allowed to talk to.
At least she'll always be wary of the Blue Angels.
Or other things in the sky.
But mostly Blue Angels.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Some of my friends even send the kids out of town when I visit.
Others just make sure that the kinderlech get no opportunity to talk to me.
It: "Uncle BOTH, why do cars move?"
Me: 'They are desperately trying to get away from their butts.'
It: "Why?"
Me: 'Because they are full of gas - that's why they make those put-put-put sounds as they flee.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why are there no dinosaurs here?"
Me: 'San Francisco is too crowded for them so they all moved to Las Vegas.'
It: "What do dinosaurs eat?"
Me: 'Pizza, extra large, with all the toppings and piled with anchovies, just like everybody else in Vegas.'
It: "What do dinosaurs do?"
Me: 'They work as lounge singers in Las Vegas. They're very popular with old people.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why is the sky blue?"
Me: 'That was the cheapest colour the master of the universe could find when he repainted; it used to be puce.'
It: "What's puce?"
Me: 'Kinda like dog poo.'
It: "What is the master of the universe?"
Me: 'Someone with lots of spare time since the kids all moved away and no longer call.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why do we celebrate Jesus' birthday?"
Me: ' 'Cause we're close to Mexico.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why did Pooky scratch me?"
Me: 'He thought you were filled with candy, just like your older brother.'
--- --- ---
It: "Uncle BOTH, why did my aunt die?"
Me: 'Spite.'
See, there's a reason people keep their little darlings from talking to me.
I talk back.
This past weekend was fleet-week weekend here in San Francisco. Which always coincides with Columbus Day. This means drunken sailors, lots of goobers, and a loud air-show over the city featuring dare-devil biplanes and the Navy's own obnoxiously loud Blue-Angels. Lordy, I hate the sound of jets roaring overhead. It's a stupid, hubristic display of testicular exhibitionism.
But first, idiots doing loop-de-loops in biplanes.
It: "Uncle BOTH, what's that buzzing?"
Me: 'That's a very rare insect, the Columbus Day mosquito, which only comes one day a year.'
It: "Is it dangerous?"
Me: 'Oh, very. The Indians hate Columbus Day, because it killed so many of them.'
It: "Will it kill us?"
Me: 'No, Boruch Hashem, because we have large blue phallic fly-swatters that fly through the sky and chase it away. If you stare at the sky long enough you'll see them. But until then, you've got to run around in circles very fast so that the Columbus Day mosquitoes can't catch you. It hurts like heck when they do.'
It: "Uncle BOTH, why aren't you running?"
Me: 'Cause I'm not young and juicy but old and knackered - do you see anyone biting me? You, on the other hand.... so soft, so tender, so very very sweet. Quick, there's one right behind you!!! Run! Run! Run! Run faster! And make some noise!'
All things considered, I had a very fine weekend. Even though there is now yet one more kid I'm not allowed to talk to.
At least she'll always be wary of the Blue Angels.
Or other things in the sky.
But mostly Blue Angels.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, October 12, 2008
HEAD-HUNTING CHICKEN
A whole chicken, pale-cooked for presentation; a ritual dish. The coconut broth is barely tinged with turmeric, to the faintest of yellow; necessary, because it would otherwise have a slight greyish hue. Traditional.
A dish to calm the spirits of heads taken in war.
BULELITJA
One whole chicken.
Two to three each: bruised stalks of lemongras, whole shallots, whole green chilies, thick slices of ginger.
One Tsp each: salt, sugar.
Half Tsp each: white peppercorns, coriander seeds.
Quarter to half Tsp turmeric.
Generous pinches tamo kuntji, langkwang.
Two whole cloves, a bay leaf, and a piece of dried orange peel.
Eight cups water.
Four cups coconut milk.
Quarter cup white liquor (either Dutch gin, or Vodka).
A jigger of vinegar.
Bring all save chicken to a boil, simmer for five to ten minutes. Inundate the bird and bring the pot back to boil. Turn off heat. Weigh the bird down - a large ceramic bowl partially filled with water will do so nicely. Do not use a metal object as it will affect taste and appearance. Let the pot sit for an hour. Then remove the chicken to a broad basin.
With a slotted spoon remove all solids from the broth. Bring the broth back to a roiling boil and pour slowly over the chicken, making sure all of it is touched by the hot liquid. Drain chicken, reserve broth to a pot and bring back to boiling, then simmer for ten minutes.
Serve the chicken and broth separately; chicken cool, broth hot.
Eat with compressed rice, chili and fishpaste strifried longbeans, and ripped vegetables.
[Lemongrass: Sere or Sae - a stalkgras with a pleasing lemon-like aroma used in South-East Asian cooking. Tamo kuntji: Kaempferia Pandurata (Boesenbergia Rotunda) - a root related to ginger and galangal, with minor antibacterial and anticancerous qualities. It has a perfumy bitter taste. In the west it can be found in Thai, Indonesian, and some Chinese stores - temo kunci (Indonesian), krachai (Thai), fingerroot, Chinese Keys (Singaporean English), 凹脣姜 (Cantonese: au-suen-keung). Langkwang: galangal (Kampferia Galanga, Alpinia Galanga), also called red ginger or dwarf ginger. Called Kha in Thai, Laos in Malay. Dried orange peel: dry your own, or purchase chan-pei (陳皮) in Chinatown, even though it comes from a different citrus (Citrus Aurantium). Dutch gin: not the same as the aftershave lotion favoured in the English speaking world, this is more like kummel - except it is flavoured with juniper berries, not caraway. The Oude Genever is a pot still product, and will take your legs out from under you if drunk to excess. The Jonge Genever is made in a patent still, and is much smoother, though still likely to commit treason on your judgment. Oude Genever is the favoured style of import-plonk in areas up from the coast. Longbeans: also called yard long beans, these are much preferred over haricots.]
NOTE: The chili paste and fish paste are on the stir-fried vegetables, because they are NOT in the broth or on the chicken. The chicken is mild flavoured, to correlate to a head taken after downing the victim. Arabs are cowards and barbarians because they take prisoners, then behead their captives alive. Such a head concentrates fear and is useless. Gut-stab to kill, then cut to harvest the head; such is the only proper way.
A dish to calm the spirits of heads taken in war.
BULELITJA
One whole chicken.
Two to three each: bruised stalks of lemongras, whole shallots, whole green chilies, thick slices of ginger.
One Tsp each: salt, sugar.
Half Tsp each: white peppercorns, coriander seeds.
Quarter to half Tsp turmeric.
Generous pinches tamo kuntji, langkwang.
Two whole cloves, a bay leaf, and a piece of dried orange peel.
Eight cups water.
Four cups coconut milk.
Quarter cup white liquor (either Dutch gin, or Vodka).
A jigger of vinegar.
Bring all save chicken to a boil, simmer for five to ten minutes. Inundate the bird and bring the pot back to boil. Turn off heat. Weigh the bird down - a large ceramic bowl partially filled with water will do so nicely. Do not use a metal object as it will affect taste and appearance. Let the pot sit for an hour. Then remove the chicken to a broad basin.
With a slotted spoon remove all solids from the broth. Bring the broth back to a roiling boil and pour slowly over the chicken, making sure all of it is touched by the hot liquid. Drain chicken, reserve broth to a pot and bring back to boiling, then simmer for ten minutes.
Serve the chicken and broth separately; chicken cool, broth hot.
Eat with compressed rice, chili and fishpaste strifried longbeans, and ripped vegetables.
[Lemongrass: Sere or Sae - a stalkgras with a pleasing lemon-like aroma used in South-East Asian cooking. Tamo kuntji: Kaempferia Pandurata (Boesenbergia Rotunda) - a root related to ginger and galangal, with minor antibacterial and anticancerous qualities. It has a perfumy bitter taste. In the west it can be found in Thai, Indonesian, and some Chinese stores - temo kunci (Indonesian), krachai (Thai), fingerroot, Chinese Keys (Singaporean English), 凹脣姜 (Cantonese: au-suen-keung). Langkwang: galangal (Kampferia Galanga, Alpinia Galanga), also called red ginger or dwarf ginger. Called Kha in Thai, Laos in Malay. Dried orange peel: dry your own, or purchase chan-pei (陳皮) in Chinatown, even though it comes from a different citrus (Citrus Aurantium). Dutch gin: not the same as the aftershave lotion favoured in the English speaking world, this is more like kummel - except it is flavoured with juniper berries, not caraway. The Oude Genever is a pot still product, and will take your legs out from under you if drunk to excess. The Jonge Genever is made in a patent still, and is much smoother, though still likely to commit treason on your judgment. Oude Genever is the favoured style of import-plonk in areas up from the coast. Longbeans: also called yard long beans, these are much preferred over haricots.]
NOTE: The chili paste and fish paste are on the stir-fried vegetables, because they are NOT in the broth or on the chicken. The chicken is mild flavoured, to correlate to a head taken after downing the victim. Arabs are cowards and barbarians because they take prisoners, then behead their captives alive. Such a head concentrates fear and is useless. Gut-stab to kill, then cut to harvest the head; such is the only proper way.
Friday, October 10, 2008
FOND THOUGHTS OF DONALD RUMSFELD
Now that we are facing the final months of the Bush administration (or its re-branded continuation for another four years), it seems worthwhile to look back in love on some of the more stellar moments of this presidency - specifically, the golem-like presence known as Donald Rumsfeld, and his faithful protection of the innocent denizens of the white-house. And their innocent little world-views.
I miss the squared double-standards.
As well as the wondrous verbal constructs.
"We know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say, we know there are some things we do not know, but there are also unknown unknowns, the ones we don't know we don't know."
---Donald Rumsfeld, US Secretary of Defense.
Truly, Pentagon Zen.
"We're trying to explain how things are going, and they are going as they are going...... Some things are going well and some things obviously are not going well. You're going to have good days and bad days."
"...this is one moment, and there will be other moments. And there will be good moments and there will be less good moments."
---Donald Rumsfeld, US minister for war and Pentagon zen-master.
We discussed at work what Rumsfeld may have meant.
Then we decided stimulation was required to fully comprehend the subtlety of his statements, and accordingly we repaired to a nearby tavern.
Our (5) top conclusions:
1.
"Out of all moments on bad days, there will be some which are better moments, and some which may be best. Enjoy bad days. Worse days are better, worst days are best."
2.
"Marijuana affects one's sense of time and one's ability to......
Mmm, uh, hey!?!"
3.
"Seize the moment, joyfully accept the challenge, and looking neither to the right nor to the left, remain focused on your goal and forge bravely forward, overcoming all obstacles which the evil inclination (yetzer hara) might put in your path, as Rabbi Nachman advises."
4.
"Settle in the moment, and steadfastly refuse to give up a single inch until the Messiah comes, as the Lubavitcher Rebbe advises."
5.
"Marijuana affects one's sense of time and one's ability to......
Eeeeh, errm, what?!?"
There was a lot of stimulation.
"people are running around with digital cameras and taking these unbelievable photographs and then passing them off, against the law, to the media, to our surprise, when they had not even arrived in the Pentagon."
---Donald Rumsfeld, Zen poet, chief censor, and secretary of offense.
Giving photos to the media is against the law? A novel thought.
The problem was not the abuse, but that our boys couldn't keep their idiot mouths shut and limit the circulation of their sm-smut to the military. At least, that seemed the official focus. A conclusion both unsurprising and beside the point.
"No member of the U.S. armed forces, active, retired, or deceased, is to have any contact with any journalist under any circumstances about anything at all unless what, when, how, and to whom have been approved by the Pentagon - a complete and encyclopedic report on all details of what will be said to be filed in triplicate several weeks in advance."
It was Rummy's world - we just had the privilege of living in it for a while.
I miss him.
I miss the squared double-standards.
As well as the wondrous verbal constructs.
"We know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say, we know there are some things we do not know, but there are also unknown unknowns, the ones we don't know we don't know."
---Donald Rumsfeld, US Secretary of Defense.
Truly, Pentagon Zen.
"We're trying to explain how things are going, and they are going as they are going...... Some things are going well and some things obviously are not going well. You're going to have good days and bad days."
"...this is one moment, and there will be other moments. And there will be good moments and there will be less good moments."
---Donald Rumsfeld, US minister for war and Pentagon zen-master.
We discussed at work what Rumsfeld may have meant.
Then we decided stimulation was required to fully comprehend the subtlety of his statements, and accordingly we repaired to a nearby tavern.
Our (5) top conclusions:
1.
"Out of all moments on bad days, there will be some which are better moments, and some which may be best. Enjoy bad days. Worse days are better, worst days are best."
2.
"Marijuana affects one's sense of time and one's ability to......
Mmm, uh, hey!?!"
3.
"Seize the moment, joyfully accept the challenge, and looking neither to the right nor to the left, remain focused on your goal and forge bravely forward, overcoming all obstacles which the evil inclination (yetzer hara) might put in your path, as Rabbi Nachman advises."
4.
"Settle in the moment, and steadfastly refuse to give up a single inch until the Messiah comes, as the Lubavitcher Rebbe advises."
5.
"Marijuana affects one's sense of time and one's ability to......
Eeeeh, errm, what?!?"
There was a lot of stimulation.
"people are running around with digital cameras and taking these unbelievable photographs and then passing them off, against the law, to the media, to our surprise, when they had not even arrived in the Pentagon."
---Donald Rumsfeld, Zen poet, chief censor, and secretary of offense.
Giving photos to the media is against the law? A novel thought.
The problem was not the abuse, but that our boys couldn't keep their idiot mouths shut and limit the circulation of their sm-smut to the military. At least, that seemed the official focus. A conclusion both unsurprising and beside the point.
"No member of the U.S. armed forces, active, retired, or deceased, is to have any contact with any journalist under any circumstances about anything at all unless what, when, how, and to whom have been approved by the Pentagon - a complete and encyclopedic report on all details of what will be said to be filed in triplicate several weeks in advance."
It was Rummy's world - we just had the privilege of living in it for a while.
I miss him.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
FINKELSTEIN, CHOMSKY, AND OTHER BLOODSUCKERS
One of my regular commenters takes exception to another commenter. Hilarity ensues.
Well, actually, not quite.
LanceThruster had commented underneath my posting proposing pie for Finkelstein. Here's what he wrote:
"Dr. Finkelstein is a truth-teller. Should someone want to attack him for that I should think humble pie would be appropriate. "
I assumed that anyone who called Finkelstein a truth-teller was a committed member of the dark side and ab initio not worth speaking with.
As I let him know:
"My dear mister Thruster, I shan't debate with you, as you are clearly too delusional to be swayed. And besides that, with the user name you have chosen, you paint yourself as a male chauvinist with a tiny penis and a massive set of issues.
You are an uber creep. Get medicated. "
Perhaps not entirely the politest response I've managed in conversation with someone who is willingly and knowingly wrong. My bad.
Then Grant Patel noticed LanceThruster's contribution. And added his own:
"The problem with herr Finkelstein is that his scholarship has been shown to be both suspect and sloppy, his conclusions are not supported by the material (and he cherry picks perhaps more blatantly than many other "scholars"), and his well-publicized tiffs with others (most notably Dershowitz) are self-serving publicity seeking stunts.
His association with others of his own ilk (particularly Chomsky) call his ideological basis into question. And his odd Oedipal exploitation of his mother indicate that, like many, he has issues with his past, and her past.
That said, I find the defense of so contentious a figure to be questionable. There are people, Jews even, who would gladly utilize a "Jewish" scholar (even one who loudly trumpets his 'Jewishness', and whose 'scholarship' is by others loudly trumpeted) for anti-Semitic and anti-Israel agendas.
And further, his willing association with those who would seek Israel's destruction, such as Hezbollah, the Iranian mullahs, and the various American far-left haters and conspirators, show him to be an immoral and unethical tool. A willing hater of his own people, who stands for nothing but getting back at his mother, and her relatives whose absence weighed so heavily on his child-hood.
Finkelstein needs therapy, Chomsky needs to shut the fu&& up, and Carter needs to be institutionalized. Tutu, Morris, and the European left all need to be locked up for supporting terrorists.
Paul Larrudee and Allison Weir need to be investigated for ties to and funding from hostile foreign interests."
Bravo, Grant, I could not have said it better myself.
Grant Patel then followed with another prize addition:
"And by the way, is LanceThruster the cover for some Paki bhainchoot? I suspect it is. I suspect, further, that LanceThruster is sympathetic to the Muslim cause. Perhaps you should look into what the Muslims and their Quislings have done to India. And, further back, to Persia.
I would particularly advise you to look into the history of the bollocky Muslims as regard to minorities and other religious creeds. Like the Christians in the Levant, and the Parsees in Iran.
Why is it that the Bahai find refuge in Israel, the Philistine Christians flee to liquor stores in California, and the Parsees are centered in India?
Could it be because Muslims, and their sympathizers, and their collaborators, are little more than intolerant murderous deviants with a creed pretty damn close to witchcraft and Gnostic word-worship?"
Lance finished with an invitation to mr. Thruster to 'congress off, feminine reproductive unit'.
[Please see this post: PIE FOR FINKELSTEIN.]
MUSLIM 'TOLERATION'
Grant Patel raises some interesting points.
The number of Christians in such countries as Jordan, Iraq, Syria, and Egypt has been falling precipitously for years as a result of persecution and government policies that favour Muslims. Virtually a low-level state sponsored Jihad - and it should be noted that the first and last listed of those countries are allegedly US allies.
The Bahai religion is virtually extinct in Iran, yet flourishes marvelously in Haifa, where the Bahai found succour from Islamic terror.
The Parsees fled Iran hundreds of years ago to get away from murderous Islamic tyranny.
I shan't even mention the Ottoman brutality that turned the Balkans into the most dysfunctional part of Europe, or the slave-raiding which Arabs engaged in for over a millennia. Which, by the way, continued under Saudi aegis until the sixties or seventies, albeit in a more southerly direction.
I shall, however, mention the Bada Ghalughara and the Chhota Ghalughara. In the first, the Muslim hordes slaughtered over thirty thousand Sikhs on February fifth, 1726.
In the second, the Muslims massacred over ten thousand on the banks of the Beas in 1746.
Both of these events should be considered inherited blots on the escutcheon of every Muslim, both of these actions make plain that Islamic rule is a curse upon a country, both of these events had no conceivable justification other than cruelty, baseness, and intolerance.
Both of those events are merely the two best examples of the bloodthirsty tyranny that prevailed in what was, at that time, the greatest of Muslim empires. And both of these events are merely blips on the radar if the total numbers of Sikhs killed by Muslims in the centuries since the rise of Sikkhism is taken into account.
Truly, the history of Muslims in the subcontinent rivals in its bestiality that of Muslims in the Middle-East. Nay, it might even surpass it - Pakistan as the Muslim portion of India has little to be proud of, and less validity as a state, than even Egypt or Jordan, or any of the blood-drenched failures of the Arab world.
I will not go as far as some of my Indian friends, who have expressed the sentiment that 'the only good Muslim is a dead Muslim'. Some of my best friends are Muslim.
But it would indeed have been better for the world if that horrid man had died before experiencing his hysterical visions and fits in the hills outside of Mecca, and never given his untrustworthy tribal kin an ideology that brought them out of the waste-lands. And there is almost nothing that compares to the depravity of the Ottoman, Persian, and Mughal empires.
Well, actually, not quite.
LanceThruster had commented underneath my posting proposing pie for Finkelstein. Here's what he wrote:
"Dr. Finkelstein is a truth-teller. Should someone want to attack him for that I should think humble pie would be appropriate. "
I assumed that anyone who called Finkelstein a truth-teller was a committed member of the dark side and ab initio not worth speaking with.
As I let him know:
"My dear mister Thruster, I shan't debate with you, as you are clearly too delusional to be swayed. And besides that, with the user name you have chosen, you paint yourself as a male chauvinist with a tiny penis and a massive set of issues.
You are an uber creep. Get medicated. "
Perhaps not entirely the politest response I've managed in conversation with someone who is willingly and knowingly wrong. My bad.
Then Grant Patel noticed LanceThruster's contribution. And added his own:
"The problem with herr Finkelstein is that his scholarship has been shown to be both suspect and sloppy, his conclusions are not supported by the material (and he cherry picks perhaps more blatantly than many other "scholars"), and his well-publicized tiffs with others (most notably Dershowitz) are self-serving publicity seeking stunts.
His association with others of his own ilk (particularly Chomsky) call his ideological basis into question. And his odd Oedipal exploitation of his mother indicate that, like many, he has issues with his past, and her past.
That said, I find the defense of so contentious a figure to be questionable. There are people, Jews even, who would gladly utilize a "Jewish" scholar (even one who loudly trumpets his 'Jewishness', and whose 'scholarship' is by others loudly trumpeted) for anti-Semitic and anti-Israel agendas.
And further, his willing association with those who would seek Israel's destruction, such as Hezbollah, the Iranian mullahs, and the various American far-left haters and conspirators, show him to be an immoral and unethical tool. A willing hater of his own people, who stands for nothing but getting back at his mother, and her relatives whose absence weighed so heavily on his child-hood.
Finkelstein needs therapy, Chomsky needs to shut the fu&& up, and Carter needs to be institutionalized. Tutu, Morris, and the European left all need to be locked up for supporting terrorists.
Paul Larrudee and Allison Weir need to be investigated for ties to and funding from hostile foreign interests."
Bravo, Grant, I could not have said it better myself.
Grant Patel then followed with another prize addition:
"And by the way, is LanceThruster the cover for some Paki bhainchoot? I suspect it is. I suspect, further, that LanceThruster is sympathetic to the Muslim cause. Perhaps you should look into what the Muslims and their Quislings have done to India. And, further back, to Persia.
I would particularly advise you to look into the history of the bollocky Muslims as regard to minorities and other religious creeds. Like the Christians in the Levant, and the Parsees in Iran.
Why is it that the Bahai find refuge in Israel, the Philistine Christians flee to liquor stores in California, and the Parsees are centered in India?
Could it be because Muslims, and their sympathizers, and their collaborators, are little more than intolerant murderous deviants with a creed pretty damn close to witchcraft and Gnostic word-worship?"
Lance finished with an invitation to mr. Thruster to 'congress off, feminine reproductive unit'.
[Please see this post: PIE FOR FINKELSTEIN.]
MUSLIM 'TOLERATION'
Grant Patel raises some interesting points.
The number of Christians in such countries as Jordan, Iraq, Syria, and Egypt has been falling precipitously for years as a result of persecution and government policies that favour Muslims. Virtually a low-level state sponsored Jihad - and it should be noted that the first and last listed of those countries are allegedly US allies.
The Bahai religion is virtually extinct in Iran, yet flourishes marvelously in Haifa, where the Bahai found succour from Islamic terror.
The Parsees fled Iran hundreds of years ago to get away from murderous Islamic tyranny.
I shan't even mention the Ottoman brutality that turned the Balkans into the most dysfunctional part of Europe, or the slave-raiding which Arabs engaged in for over a millennia. Which, by the way, continued under Saudi aegis until the sixties or seventies, albeit in a more southerly direction.
I shall, however, mention the Bada Ghalughara and the Chhota Ghalughara. In the first, the Muslim hordes slaughtered over thirty thousand Sikhs on February fifth, 1726.
In the second, the Muslims massacred over ten thousand on the banks of the Beas in 1746.
Both of these events should be considered inherited blots on the escutcheon of every Muslim, both of these actions make plain that Islamic rule is a curse upon a country, both of these events had no conceivable justification other than cruelty, baseness, and intolerance.
Both of those events are merely the two best examples of the bloodthirsty tyranny that prevailed in what was, at that time, the greatest of Muslim empires. And both of these events are merely blips on the radar if the total numbers of Sikhs killed by Muslims in the centuries since the rise of Sikkhism is taken into account.
Truly, the history of Muslims in the subcontinent rivals in its bestiality that of Muslims in the Middle-East. Nay, it might even surpass it - Pakistan as the Muslim portion of India has little to be proud of, and less validity as a state, than even Egypt or Jordan, or any of the blood-drenched failures of the Arab world.
I will not go as far as some of my Indian friends, who have expressed the sentiment that 'the only good Muslim is a dead Muslim'. Some of my best friends are Muslim.
But it would indeed have been better for the world if that horrid man had died before experiencing his hysterical visions and fits in the hills outside of Mecca, and never given his untrustworthy tribal kin an ideology that brought them out of the waste-lands. And there is almost nothing that compares to the depravity of the Ottoman, Persian, and Mughal empires.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
THREE VERSIONS OF JAPANESE WOMANHOOD
I shall confess right off the top that the title of this post is misleading. The versions of womanhood that will be presented are by no means typical of womanhood, nor of the Japanese, though they are in fact very Japanese indeed.
The title was meant to draw you in while I indulge in my fascination with graphic novels (manga).
MANGA HEROINES
There are several different types of women who feature as main characters in graphic novels, but most of them represent not so much the praedictable fetish-femme of western light literature, but an interesting blend of character traits combined with a physical type.
The physical type need not match the character, and sometimes the contrasts between types and characters are used for comic or dramatic effect (many of the girls in Ranma ½, for instance, are both cute-as-the-dickens and super-violent).
In some manga, the physical type is not particularly significant - either the artist is simply hung up on a particular set of drawing conventions ('can't draw for sh..!'), or the editorial board decided that a certain type would attract a certain market segment (the violent chicks in Ranma ½ appeal to healthy teenage boys of all ages, the four big-eyed high-school moppets of Raki-Suta, oddly, seem only to have a following of perverts and degenerates - Konachan especially attracts the attention of the future sexfiends of America).
THREE GIRL MANGAS
SUNSHINE SKETCH ひだまりスケッチ
[Physical type: saccharine-cute.]
Sunshine Sketch (Hidamari Sukechi), is a four-panel strip about the daily lives of four girls at the Yamabuki Art High School. The characters differ in predictable ways - the rambunctious one (Miyako, 宮子) , the sensitive and mature one (Hiro, ヒロ), the talented cunning one (Sae, 沙英), and of course the main character, Yuno, (ゆの), who is altogether very nice. The illustration style takes cuteness to an almost Hello-Kitty like level of candy floss: cute round heads, cute big big eyes, cute angelic smiles, cute neat little bodies in cute neat little school uniforms in cute cute cute settings and situations.......... If cute makes you barf, you might want to avoid this one. Read Azumanga Daioh instead; far less cute, much more wit, and a sly sense of dementia.
SAMURAI CHAMPLOO サムライチャンプルー
[Physical type: simple and elegant.]
A manga derived from the anime of the same name. Champloo is actually the Okinawan word 'Chanpuru' (to mix or mess together). A period piece, a ronin epic, and a bitter comedic opera.
There are three characters - Jin, the intellectual and extremely skilled swordsman who carves up opponents with single-minded ferocity; Mugen, a brash, unwashed, eternally hungry violent young man with a sword; and Fuu, a petite teenage waitress with somewhat large bosoms, who hires both men to protect her while she goes on a quest. She has a furry pet named Momo (peach, flying squirrel) who lives inside her clothing. The events of their journey to the south are told in the episodes. There are references to western painters, and to hip hop music. It is ultra violent. And very enjoyable. Fuu is more irritating to many of the people they encounter than either of the two psychopathic swordsmen accompanying her. The illustration style is lavish - more so in the anime.
On the very first page, the ravenous Mugen eats a frog, to the distress of a little boy whose mother tells him to 'ignore the bad man'. On the next page the violence starts. This is a good wholesome read for the entire family.
FUJOSHI RUMI 妄想少女オタク系
[Physical type: stylized realistic.]
Mousou Shoujo Otaku Kei, translated into English as Fujoshi Rumi ('rotten girl Rumi'), is a sendup of the Otaku world, written for borderline otakus, by someone who is probably an otaku.
[Otaku refers to the type of young person who is socially inept and relies on manga, anime, and computer games for interactions with the world. Often they are painfully shy, incapable of speaking without frequent use of references and quotes drawn from their reading material (kind of like talmedim), and given to seeing everything in terms of their constructed meta-reality (how yeshivish!). They're also rather like the timid software engineers who roam in giant flocks between here and San Jose, as well as trekkies, lord-of-the-ringies, and others of that ilk.]
The heroine is a shy, nerdy aficionado of Yaoi - gay men love stories written for a female audience. This shades her interpretation of the interactions of two male classmates, and at first she does not realize that one of them is attracted to her, because she thinks that he and the other boy are a couple. She emotionally supports them in their beautiful romantic choice - they are totally baffled, not realizing what she thinks of them. Only when a second girl interferes does it finally become clear, and at this point, Rumi goes entirely over the top Otaku-wise when it turns out that the other girl is a kindred spirit who is also entranced by Yaoi romances.
Full-throttle geek action!
Both girls, by the way, embody several graphic fetishes at once. Rumi is short, shy, curvy, clumsy, blushes easily, has pigtails, and wears huge spectacles (mmmm, blushing, twin-tails, meganeko!). Matsui is leggy, wears short school-girl uniform skirts, and has cleavage that most teenage Japanese girls would die for - how much more so their male classmates!
The story develops as a tale of clumsy romantic intentions thwarted by misunderstanding and nerd-tendencies. Two normal boys, two innocently twisted girls. At the end of volume two, Rumi announces dramatically that she will not let a boy have Matsui's soft breasts and narrow waist, she will have them for herself!
It is clear that if a gay man wanted them, she would have approved wholeheartedly - she is, after all, not herself a lesbian, merely a lover of gay manga heroes. Two totally normal, totally heterosexual, totally clueless male specimens like Abe and Chiba, cannot possible appreciate or deserve the perfect anime-heroine ideal represented by Matsui.
If they were gay, on the other hand......
This is a very clean manga, with almost none of the fan-service that would shock or excite innocent little yeshiva boys. But because of it's subject matter, it should be hidden under your mattress.
Women readers might not get it, despite the humour - you ladies still don't quite understand the geek-nerd phenomenon, nor the thing about blushing, pigtails, spectacles, and school-girl uniforms.
Nevertheless I recommend it highly.
The title was meant to draw you in while I indulge in my fascination with graphic novels (manga).
MANGA HEROINES
There are several different types of women who feature as main characters in graphic novels, but most of them represent not so much the praedictable fetish-femme of western light literature, but an interesting blend of character traits combined with a physical type.
The physical type need not match the character, and sometimes the contrasts between types and characters are used for comic or dramatic effect (many of the girls in Ranma ½, for instance, are both cute-as-the-dickens and super-violent).
In some manga, the physical type is not particularly significant - either the artist is simply hung up on a particular set of drawing conventions ('can't draw for sh..!'), or the editorial board decided that a certain type would attract a certain market segment (the violent chicks in Ranma ½ appeal to healthy teenage boys of all ages, the four big-eyed high-school moppets of Raki-Suta, oddly, seem only to have a following of perverts and degenerates - Konachan especially attracts the attention of the future sexfiends of America).
THREE GIRL MANGAS
SUNSHINE SKETCH ひだまりスケッチ
[Physical type: saccharine-cute.]
Sunshine Sketch (Hidamari Sukechi), is a four-panel strip about the daily lives of four girls at the Yamabuki Art High School. The characters differ in predictable ways - the rambunctious one (Miyako, 宮子) , the sensitive and mature one (Hiro, ヒロ), the talented cunning one (Sae, 沙英), and of course the main character, Yuno, (ゆの), who is altogether very nice. The illustration style takes cuteness to an almost Hello-Kitty like level of candy floss: cute round heads, cute big big eyes, cute angelic smiles, cute neat little bodies in cute neat little school uniforms in cute cute cute settings and situations.......... If cute makes you barf, you might want to avoid this one. Read Azumanga Daioh instead; far less cute, much more wit, and a sly sense of dementia.
SAMURAI CHAMPLOO サムライチャンプルー
[Physical type: simple and elegant.]
A manga derived from the anime of the same name. Champloo is actually the Okinawan word 'Chanpuru' (to mix or mess together). A period piece, a ronin epic, and a bitter comedic opera.
There are three characters - Jin, the intellectual and extremely skilled swordsman who carves up opponents with single-minded ferocity; Mugen, a brash, unwashed, eternally hungry violent young man with a sword; and Fuu, a petite teenage waitress with somewhat large bosoms, who hires both men to protect her while she goes on a quest. She has a furry pet named Momo (peach, flying squirrel) who lives inside her clothing. The events of their journey to the south are told in the episodes. There are references to western painters, and to hip hop music. It is ultra violent. And very enjoyable. Fuu is more irritating to many of the people they encounter than either of the two psychopathic swordsmen accompanying her. The illustration style is lavish - more so in the anime.
On the very first page, the ravenous Mugen eats a frog, to the distress of a little boy whose mother tells him to 'ignore the bad man'. On the next page the violence starts. This is a good wholesome read for the entire family.
FUJOSHI RUMI 妄想少女オタク系
[Physical type: stylized realistic.]
Mousou Shoujo Otaku Kei, translated into English as Fujoshi Rumi ('rotten girl Rumi'), is a sendup of the Otaku world, written for borderline otakus, by someone who is probably an otaku.
[Otaku refers to the type of young person who is socially inept and relies on manga, anime, and computer games for interactions with the world. Often they are painfully shy, incapable of speaking without frequent use of references and quotes drawn from their reading material (kind of like talmedim), and given to seeing everything in terms of their constructed meta-reality (how yeshivish!). They're also rather like the timid software engineers who roam in giant flocks between here and San Jose, as well as trekkies, lord-of-the-ringies, and others of that ilk.]
The heroine is a shy, nerdy aficionado of Yaoi - gay men love stories written for a female audience. This shades her interpretation of the interactions of two male classmates, and at first she does not realize that one of them is attracted to her, because she thinks that he and the other boy are a couple. She emotionally supports them in their beautiful romantic choice - they are totally baffled, not realizing what she thinks of them. Only when a second girl interferes does it finally become clear, and at this point, Rumi goes entirely over the top Otaku-wise when it turns out that the other girl is a kindred spirit who is also entranced by Yaoi romances.
Full-throttle geek action!
Both girls, by the way, embody several graphic fetishes at once. Rumi is short, shy, curvy, clumsy, blushes easily, has pigtails, and wears huge spectacles (mmmm, blushing, twin-tails, meganeko!). Matsui is leggy, wears short school-girl uniform skirts, and has cleavage that most teenage Japanese girls would die for - how much more so their male classmates!
The story develops as a tale of clumsy romantic intentions thwarted by misunderstanding and nerd-tendencies. Two normal boys, two innocently twisted girls. At the end of volume two, Rumi announces dramatically that she will not let a boy have Matsui's soft breasts and narrow waist, she will have them for herself!
It is clear that if a gay man wanted them, she would have approved wholeheartedly - she is, after all, not herself a lesbian, merely a lover of gay manga heroes. Two totally normal, totally heterosexual, totally clueless male specimens like Abe and Chiba, cannot possible appreciate or deserve the perfect anime-heroine ideal represented by Matsui.
If they were gay, on the other hand......
This is a very clean manga, with almost none of the fan-service that would shock or excite innocent little yeshiva boys. But because of it's subject matter, it should be hidden under your mattress.
Women readers might not get it, despite the humour - you ladies still don't quite understand the geek-nerd phenomenon, nor the thing about blushing, pigtails, spectacles, and school-girl uniforms.
Nevertheless I recommend it highly.
SMELL MY HAIR!
Americans have a hair fetish. I realized this yesterday afternoon when I went to Walgreens for some shampoo. If it weren't for the American bosom-fixation, there would be no naked-women porn at all, just lots of glossy pictures of coiffures, and late-night wig stores all over the place.
The Walgreens near the office has an entire aisle of shampoo. It just does not have any normal shampoo.
It has products with tea tree oil, herbal extractives, lavender, blossoms, fruit essences, frootiqueries, lactobang, egg-yolk and verbena, sandalum alba, olive oil, vitamins E, C, A, mineral supplement shampoo, environmental shampoo, extra shine, therapeutic, deep-cleansing, soothing, ayurvedic, yin-yang, ylang-ylang, blonde bombshell super-mane, dyed hair, soft hair, delicate hair, dry hair, fragile hair, insecure hair, special hair, and office bitch from hell attitude hair.
Multiples from several different manufacturers, including the Japanese.
It differs from the Walgreens near my apartment, which has at least three nice unstinky shampoos for 'normal hair', and not very much else.
You might think that I would simply hold-off until I got back to my own neighborhood and buy a familiar product, but you would be wrong.
I cannot go to the Walgreens in my neighborhood.
It isn't because I propositioned a nice teenage clerky-poo behind the counter, or exposed myself in the aisle with the pads for the elderly. Nothing like that at all. Nor have I developed an issue regarding the large spotty spectacles-woman who manages the place.
I do not go there because that entire intersection is filled with street people, drawn by the bright lights of a drugstore which is open till twelve, the magnetism of two insta-tellers, a movie theatre, liquor stores and restaurants, and a discount tobacco centre which is open in the evening.
The frenetic buzzing disturbs me, I'll Walgreenize near work, thank you.
So I bought the most unfroofroo shampoo I could find.
GILLETTE CLEAN AND REFRESHING SHAMPOO - 'with refreshing mint'.
I am willing to try something new. Even hair mint.
A brief note about the bathroom. See, the shower thingy doesn't work, hasn't functioned for ten years. I could get the manager in to fix, like the last time, but it doesn't seem worth it for something that, in theory, I could do myself, but haven't. So instead, Savage Kitten and I take baths and rinse off afterwards by dumping buckets of water over ourselves. The net result is the same.
And perhaps I should also explain that mint not only refreshes, but sometimes nips, stings and tingles - especially on the squidgy bits. Of which, sitting in the warm water while lathering my hair I slowly became aware. Acutely. A sensation of increasing warmth, tingle, and itch, in a place where at the time I did not want either warmth or tingle. Or itch.
This is not a problem that can be solved by simply standing up, as the mint extractives which cause the issue will still be in the water droplets pearling the naked body. And standing up abruptly with the eyes closed is not a good idea - not in a bath tub.
I can see the headline already: "ambulance hauls away naked minty man", or "nude breaks leg due to crotch itch".
I do want to be famous, but not that way.
It reminded me of a time when the shower still worked. Years ago I used to bottle my own hot sauce, made with Scotch Bonnet peppers and Habaňeros. I would go through pounds of chilies, cutting them open to check for rotten spots before dumping them in the blender. Doing so one day, at one point I needed to visit the powder room. Meh, no problem, wash hands thoroughly with strong soap, two or three times, before.....................
I spent an hour under an ice-cold shower that day. I remember it well.
Anyhow, the minty component of this new shampoo is not quite in that league. Not enough to cause accidents by a long shot. And I do indeed feel clean and refreshed. Oh boy do I ever.
I want to sniff myself.
Mmmmm, zesty!
I smell good. I am fresh. Oh yes!
I like how I feel - I will keep this tingly product.
I can't wait till Savage Kitten discovers the new shampoo.
The Walgreens near the office has an entire aisle of shampoo. It just does not have any normal shampoo.
It has products with tea tree oil, herbal extractives, lavender, blossoms, fruit essences, frootiqueries, lactobang, egg-yolk and verbena, sandalum alba, olive oil, vitamins E, C, A, mineral supplement shampoo, environmental shampoo, extra shine, therapeutic, deep-cleansing, soothing, ayurvedic, yin-yang, ylang-ylang, blonde bombshell super-mane, dyed hair, soft hair, delicate hair, dry hair, fragile hair, insecure hair, special hair, and office bitch from hell attitude hair.
Multiples from several different manufacturers, including the Japanese.
It differs from the Walgreens near my apartment, which has at least three nice unstinky shampoos for 'normal hair', and not very much else.
You might think that I would simply hold-off until I got back to my own neighborhood and buy a familiar product, but you would be wrong.
I cannot go to the Walgreens in my neighborhood.
It isn't because I propositioned a nice teenage clerky-poo behind the counter, or exposed myself in the aisle with the pads for the elderly. Nothing like that at all. Nor have I developed an issue regarding the large spotty spectacles-woman who manages the place.
I do not go there because that entire intersection is filled with street people, drawn by the bright lights of a drugstore which is open till twelve, the magnetism of two insta-tellers, a movie theatre, liquor stores and restaurants, and a discount tobacco centre which is open in the evening.
The frenetic buzzing disturbs me, I'll Walgreenize near work, thank you.
So I bought the most unfroofroo shampoo I could find.
GILLETTE CLEAN AND REFRESHING SHAMPOO - 'with refreshing mint'.
I am willing to try something new. Even hair mint.
A brief note about the bathroom. See, the shower thingy doesn't work, hasn't functioned for ten years. I could get the manager in to fix, like the last time, but it doesn't seem worth it for something that, in theory, I could do myself, but haven't. So instead, Savage Kitten and I take baths and rinse off afterwards by dumping buckets of water over ourselves. The net result is the same.
And perhaps I should also explain that mint not only refreshes, but sometimes nips, stings and tingles - especially on the squidgy bits. Of which, sitting in the warm water while lathering my hair I slowly became aware. Acutely. A sensation of increasing warmth, tingle, and itch, in a place where at the time I did not want either warmth or tingle. Or itch.
This is not a problem that can be solved by simply standing up, as the mint extractives which cause the issue will still be in the water droplets pearling the naked body. And standing up abruptly with the eyes closed is not a good idea - not in a bath tub.
I can see the headline already: "ambulance hauls away naked minty man", or "nude breaks leg due to crotch itch".
I do want to be famous, but not that way.
It reminded me of a time when the shower still worked. Years ago I used to bottle my own hot sauce, made with Scotch Bonnet peppers and Habaňeros. I would go through pounds of chilies, cutting them open to check for rotten spots before dumping them in the blender. Doing so one day, at one point I needed to visit the powder room. Meh, no problem, wash hands thoroughly with strong soap, two or three times, before.....................
I spent an hour under an ice-cold shower that day. I remember it well.
Anyhow, the minty component of this new shampoo is not quite in that league. Not enough to cause accidents by a long shot. And I do indeed feel clean and refreshed. Oh boy do I ever.
I want to sniff myself.
Mmmmm, zesty!
I smell good. I am fresh. Oh yes!
I like how I feel - I will keep this tingly product.
I can't wait till Savage Kitten discovers the new shampoo.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
PIE FOR FINKELSTEIN
A frequent reader and occasional commenter draws my attention to the upcoming visit of Norman Finkelstein, kapo and collaborateur-extraordinaire of the International Phillistinist Enterprise, which will be sponsored by the usual gang of thugs at UC Berkeley - that being an Arab-funded operation going under the name of 'Students For Justice In Palestine'.
She writes:
I'd like to start a thread here (just making myself at home, sorry BOTH. Just another pesky Jew colonizing a blog and displacing the indigenous population).
Norman Finkelstein, self loathing Jew and enabler of anti-Semitism is talking at UC Berkeley next week.
On his blog he comes out in favor of "pie-ing" as protected free speech.
Since Israel, truth, and pie are all relevant to this blog, I'd like to ask the readership?
What pie for Norman?
I'm leaning towards pecan, since he's just plain nuts, but Bavarian cream has a certain poetic justice to it as well.
I've been doing my research, but I still can't decide.
"During the last great wave of pie-ings in the late 1990s, a British pie company, Tesco, actually tested all its varieties for aerodynamics, crust dispersion and creamability. For best results, the company recommended egg custard, lemon meringue and anything with a fruit filling. "All our pies fly extremely well," company spokeswoman Melodie Schuster proudly told The Wall Street Journal."
Any suggestions of a pie for Finkelstein?
Much thanks
-------Tia
Well, the first thing that pops into my head is tofu cheesecake (several recipes here), primarily because while it goes down smoothly, it will inevitably give you the runs. Tofu cheesecake is better than most laxatives in that regard, and proves, once again, that white folks messing with tofu are responsible for a lot that is wrong in this world. Tofutti, tofurky, tofam, tofalestinians, tofacon, tofu dogs, tofu ice cream, and tofu spam.
If you really want tofu, eat it with meat sauce.
MA PO TOFU (麻婆豆腐)
One block firm tofu (14 oz).
1/4 lb ground meat.
2 TBS chili paste.
2 TBS Szechuan hot bean paste (laat dou fan jeung 辣豆瓣酱).
2 TBS regular oil.
1 TBS chili oil.
½ TBS Szechuan peppercorns (fa-chiew 花椒,alternative name: san-chiew 山椒). roasted and finely ground .
½ Tsp fermented black beans (dou-see 豆豉) soaked and mashed.
2 scallions, cut to 2 inch lengths.
2 gloves garlic, chopped.
½ TBS soy sauce.
Quarter cup stock and a jigger of sherry.
Pinch of sugar, pinch of cornstarch - blended in a little hot water.
Cut tofu into chunks, blanch in gently boiling water, drain. Sauté the ground meat, garlic, and spicy bean paste in the two oils till the meat is no longer pink. Add the chili paste, dao see, and soy sauce, stir around to mix everything, then add the tofu, stock, and sherry. Cook, gently stirring (to prevent the tofu breaking up) for a few minutes, then add the fa-chiew, scallions, and the pinches of sugar and cornstarch which have been blended in a little hot water. Stir a little longer and plate it.
On second thought, even Norman Finkelstein doesn't deserve tofu cheesecake. Nobody does. But what would be utterly perfect is three day old Blue Peeps Pie (recipe here: Horrid Goyish Treif).
You will have to age it three days yourself. Or longer. Unrefrigerated is good.
You might also wonder what other colours of peeps for perverted pie would be appropriate - I favour the blue ones, because it would painfully remind the rat and his acolytes of Israel - especially if you sprayed whipped cream on the pie before serving it to him. Several days before serving it to him.
But any colour would do. Even red, black, white, and green (maraschino cherries, soft licorice, cool whip, and chunks of lime jello - think of it as Palestinian Ambrosia Salad).
Please discuss. And bon appetite!
She writes:
I'd like to start a thread here (just making myself at home, sorry BOTH. Just another pesky Jew colonizing a blog and displacing the indigenous population).
Norman Finkelstein, self loathing Jew and enabler of anti-Semitism is talking at UC Berkeley next week.
On his blog he comes out in favor of "pie-ing" as protected free speech.
Since Israel, truth, and pie are all relevant to this blog, I'd like to ask the readership?
What pie for Norman?
I'm leaning towards pecan, since he's just plain nuts, but Bavarian cream has a certain poetic justice to it as well.
I've been doing my research, but I still can't decide.
"During the last great wave of pie-ings in the late 1990s, a British pie company, Tesco, actually tested all its varieties for aerodynamics, crust dispersion and creamability. For best results, the company recommended egg custard, lemon meringue and anything with a fruit filling. "All our pies fly extremely well," company spokeswoman Melodie Schuster proudly told The Wall Street Journal."
Any suggestions of a pie for Finkelstein?
Much thanks
-------Tia
Well, the first thing that pops into my head is tofu cheesecake (several recipes here), primarily because while it goes down smoothly, it will inevitably give you the runs. Tofu cheesecake is better than most laxatives in that regard, and proves, once again, that white folks messing with tofu are responsible for a lot that is wrong in this world. Tofutti, tofurky, tofam, tofalestinians, tofacon, tofu dogs, tofu ice cream, and tofu spam.
If you really want tofu, eat it with meat sauce.
MA PO TOFU (麻婆豆腐)
One block firm tofu (14 oz).
1/4 lb ground meat.
2 TBS chili paste.
2 TBS Szechuan hot bean paste (laat dou fan jeung 辣豆瓣酱).
2 TBS regular oil.
1 TBS chili oil.
½ TBS Szechuan peppercorns (fa-chiew 花椒,alternative name: san-chiew 山椒). roasted and finely ground .
½ Tsp fermented black beans (dou-see 豆豉) soaked and mashed.
2 scallions, cut to 2 inch lengths.
2 gloves garlic, chopped.
½ TBS soy sauce.
Quarter cup stock and a jigger of sherry.
Pinch of sugar, pinch of cornstarch - blended in a little hot water.
Cut tofu into chunks, blanch in gently boiling water, drain. Sauté the ground meat, garlic, and spicy bean paste in the two oils till the meat is no longer pink. Add the chili paste, dao see, and soy sauce, stir around to mix everything, then add the tofu, stock, and sherry. Cook, gently stirring (to prevent the tofu breaking up) for a few minutes, then add the fa-chiew, scallions, and the pinches of sugar and cornstarch which have been blended in a little hot water. Stir a little longer and plate it.
On second thought, even Norman Finkelstein doesn't deserve tofu cheesecake. Nobody does. But what would be utterly perfect is three day old Blue Peeps Pie (recipe here: Horrid Goyish Treif).
You will have to age it three days yourself. Or longer. Unrefrigerated is good.
You might also wonder what other colours of peeps for perverted pie would be appropriate - I favour the blue ones, because it would painfully remind the rat and his acolytes of Israel - especially if you sprayed whipped cream on the pie before serving it to him. Several days before serving it to him.
But any colour would do. Even red, black, white, and green (maraschino cherries, soft licorice, cool whip, and chunks of lime jello - think of it as Palestinian Ambrosia Salad).
Please discuss. And bon appetite!
Monday, October 06, 2008
FIGHTING FAX WITH FAX
Two weeks ago a young lady left a message in my voicemailbox, as she had done several times before. She needed me to do something for her, to satisfy a certain requirement, to provide her with......
Wipe that silly grin off your face, that wasn't what she wanted. She needed me to fax her a W-9.
[The W-9 is a form that provides a company's tax identification number and has checkboxes for the kind of entity which the company claims to be. It must be signed by a U.S. citizen or other U.S. person. The W-9 is formally known as 'Request for Taxpayer Identification Number and Certification'.]
The young lady in question had already faxed over a blank form to be filled-out at our end.
Fifteen times.
We had faxed her a completed form.
Fourteen times.
Her several frantic messages insisted that we fill out her form, not just send her the one we keep ready for just such occassions. Her form. Not any other. Hers. Hers only, only hers. Why would we not fill out her form? Why did we keep sending our form? She needed hers! Did we not understand? Hers, hers, hers!
Half-way through this two-week fax-fest I noticed what made her form different. Hers was the October 2007 revision - we were using the November 2005 revision.
The 2007 revision has added the following text UNDERNEATH the fill-out and sign part of the form: "General Instruction - Section references are to the Internal Revenue Code unless otherwise noted".
That's it. That is the only difference. Thirteen extra words in a non-legally-relevant blurble section of the form. The layout remains the same, and all of the other text is the same. The font is the same. The fields to fill out remain the same: name of entity, address, status, tax id, and signature by a U.S. citizen or other U.S. person.
She already had the information she needed, in the format in which it was required, with a signature by a U.S. citizen or other U.S. person certifying that the information was correct.
Either version of the form is valid once signed by a U.S. citizen or other U.S. person - whence this banal anality?
So I called her, to explain the sameness and find out why she was being nuts. As such insistence clearly proved her to be. Red-tape vampire hag-bitch from the bottom rung of the brimstone bureaucracy. Neurotic, bonkers, twisted. Daemonic braindead nerdette. Possibly a half-wit, more likely simply a badly trained clerical gibbon given too much freedom. A pencil-pusher without the capacity for independent thought. Severly ineffective.
She understood why I called. And gently explained that it was her corporate masters that insisted on the October 2007 revision, and refused to accept the information if it was proffered on an earlier version of the form (such as the November 2005 revision). She had no choice or stake in the matter. Corporate HQ demanded absolute uniformity.
In addition to my other qualities I am a U.S. citizen or other U.S. person, so I have filled-out and faxed her the October 2007 revision.
It is now hanging on my cubicle wall as a reminder of my capitulation.
Wipe that silly grin off your face, that wasn't what she wanted. She needed me to fax her a W-9.
[The W-9 is a form that provides a company's tax identification number and has checkboxes for the kind of entity which the company claims to be. It must be signed by a U.S. citizen or other U.S. person. The W-9 is formally known as 'Request for Taxpayer Identification Number and Certification'.]
The young lady in question had already faxed over a blank form to be filled-out at our end.
Fifteen times.
We had faxed her a completed form.
Fourteen times.
Her several frantic messages insisted that we fill out her form, not just send her the one we keep ready for just such occassions. Her form. Not any other. Hers. Hers only, only hers. Why would we not fill out her form? Why did we keep sending our form? She needed hers! Did we not understand? Hers, hers, hers!
Half-way through this two-week fax-fest I noticed what made her form different. Hers was the October 2007 revision - we were using the November 2005 revision.
The 2007 revision has added the following text UNDERNEATH the fill-out and sign part of the form: "General Instruction - Section references are to the Internal Revenue Code unless otherwise noted".
That's it. That is the only difference. Thirteen extra words in a non-legally-relevant blurble section of the form. The layout remains the same, and all of the other text is the same. The font is the same. The fields to fill out remain the same: name of entity, address, status, tax id, and signature by a U.S. citizen or other U.S. person.
She already had the information she needed, in the format in which it was required, with a signature by a U.S. citizen or other U.S. person certifying that the information was correct.
Either version of the form is valid once signed by a U.S. citizen or other U.S. person - whence this banal anality?
So I called her, to explain the sameness and find out why she was being nuts. As such insistence clearly proved her to be. Red-tape vampire hag-bitch from the bottom rung of the brimstone bureaucracy. Neurotic, bonkers, twisted. Daemonic braindead nerdette. Possibly a half-wit, more likely simply a badly trained clerical gibbon given too much freedom. A pencil-pusher without the capacity for independent thought. Severly ineffective.
She understood why I called. And gently explained that it was her corporate masters that insisted on the October 2007 revision, and refused to accept the information if it was proffered on an earlier version of the form (such as the November 2005 revision). She had no choice or stake in the matter. Corporate HQ demanded absolute uniformity.
In addition to my other qualities I am a U.S. citizen or other U.S. person, so I have filled-out and faxed her the October 2007 revision.
It is now hanging on my cubicle wall as a reminder of my capitulation.
Friday, October 03, 2008
WHAT IS THAT MESS ON MY PLATE? RAWON AND GANGKIYAP - HOMECOOKING
Sometimes you just have to eat the funky stuff. Because it tastes like home, that's why.
And it's almost a guarantee that unless you are a tofu-white Midwesterner, nothing where you are now really tastes like home unless you make it yourself.
Here are two recipes that taste like home to me, though my mother would have been shocked and horrified had she known that I ate stuff like this (or even brought it into the house).
The first one is an almost black meat soup-stew from Java, made with kluwak nuts (the seed of the Kulape tree (Kepayang; Pangium Edule). Kluwak which are available in the west are thoroughly processed and have been dried - they must be made soft by steeping in a little hot water for about ten or fifteen minutes, whereupon they may be mashed to a smooth paste with ease. They add a nice 'rusty' fragrance to dishes, and change the colour to brown-black. Very delicious.
RAWON
[Javanese black soup-stew]
One pound stew beef or lamb chunks.
One onion, chopped.
One stalk sere (lemongrass), bruised.
Three to five cloves garlic, mashed, and an equivalent amount of ginger, ditto.
One teaspoon ground coriander.
Half a teaspoon each: turmeric, cayenne, cumin, langkwang powder.
Half a dozen soaked kluwak nuts, mashed up in a little hot water.
A few daon parot (kaffir lime leaves).
Pinches salt, pepper, sugar.
Scallion and cilantro to garnish.
Gild onion in oil, add the garlic and ginger, stir briefly, add the spices, then the meat. Cook, stirring, till the meat is no longer pink and the fragrance rises. Seethe with a little water and add the mashed kluwak, stirring to dissolve. Add everything else, plus water to cover generously. Simmer for about an hour. Garnish with scallion and cilantro.
GANGKIYAP
[Tamarao potato and bamboo shoot curry]
Three cups match-stick cut potato.
One cup bamboo shoot, ditto.
Two or three shallots, minced.
Three to five cloves garlic, mashed, and an equivalent amount of ginger, ditto.
Three to five Roma tomatoes; peeled, seeded, chopped.
One and a half teaspoons each: cayenne, ground coriander.
Half a teaspoon each: ground cumin, turmeric.
Half a tablespoon shrimp paste, OR a suitable pinch of salt.
Generous pinch of sugar.
Half a cup each: ricewine or sherry, coconut milk, meat broth.
Cilantro and sliced green chilies to garnish.
Gild shallots in oil, add the garlic and ginger, stir briefly, add the spices, stir till fragrant, and seethe with a little water. Add the potato, cook for about five minutes till the liquid is gone. Add everything else, including the liquids, and cook for another ten or fifteen minutes (depends on how thick your matchstick cut potatoes are). Garnish and serve.
Taken together, these two dishes, with a bowl of clear broth, a plate of plain boiled rice, some sambal (hot chili paste), plus a few raw or blanched vegetables to dip in the sambal, will make a very satisfying meal. Have lime wedges on the side, both for squeezing over the dishes as well as acidulating the broth - especially if it is a fish broth.
As regards sambal, Dutch people usually serve it directly from the store-bought jar and glop it onto the plate (sometimes right onto the food!), Indos and well-bred Javanese have a bowl of sambal freshly made on the table, from which each diner will transfer some to a small condiment saucer. This may be tailored to personal taste with a dash of patis (amber liquid fish sauce), ketjap manis (sweet dark soy sauce), lime juice, or black vinegar. In the Indonesian countryside it is often served in the mortar in which it was mashed, and the diners will scoop some onto their plate as needed.
One eats these foods using spoons and forks off of porcelain (spoon to eat, fork as a pushing device). The table setting includes a plate for each diner, as well as condiment saucers, soup bowls, and a bone bowl (for refuse and inedible bits). Almost no-one eats off of banana leaves anymore, and dulang (centre-footed round wooden presentation and serving trays) are also seldom used, though prized as cultural objects and heirlooms.
-------------------------------------------
Note regarding ingredients mentioned in the recipes:
Sere: Lemongrass (sere, serai, sae). A tropical stalk-grass that smells like candied lemon. Available in S.E. Asian markets. Keeps away bugs, so worth growing in your backyard.
Langkwang: Galangal (lengkuas, laos); related to ginger, has an old-fashioned almost medicinal smell. Do not use the dried LengKeung available in Chinatown, though - while it is a close relative, it is more suited for cooking bushmeats (!) as tonic than regular meats as dinner table food. The proportions used are also different.
Daon Parot: Kaffir lime leaf; a leaf that adds a fragrance between tea-rose and citrus. No substitute, but not absolutely essential. It can be purchased in markets catering to a Thai and Indonesian clientele.
Bamboo shoot: Edible young bamboo (called 'rabong' in Indonesian languages). Can be purchased in Chinatown in cans already blanched and sliced matchstickwise - simply rinse and drain before use.
If using fresh bamboo shoot, peel them, and trim away the root and any overly fibrous parts. Cut to the shape desired, and boil in a large pan of water for about twenty minutes. Do not cover the pan. This process removes the bitterness that makes raw shoots appealing only to pandas. Taste a little afterwards. If there is still some remaining bitterness, change the water and boil for another five minutes or so. Drain and rinse. Don't worry, they'll still be crunchy after cooking. Bamboo shoots are very low in calories, but a great source of fibre (hah, what a surprise!). They are reputed to be good for the heart, and both anti-viral and anti-cancerous in their effect on the body. Plus they taste good. That last bit is the most important reason to eat them. Really the only reason.
Shrimp paste: Trasi is the Indonesian version, being a dried dark brown smelly substance reminiscent of a bouillion cube..... A salty fishy rotten bouillion cube.
The Philippinos have various similar preparations, generically called bago'ong, which represent various stages of fragrance and chemical instability - not recommended.
Nowadays I use the Cantonese version (鹹蝦醬 - haam haa jeung), which is a pungent purple-grey goop in a jar that keeps forever. It is high in salt, but also other minerals. Not very nutritious, but when cooked it is oh so tasty. Dipping green mango into a little of this is pure heaven. It should be in every kitchen, right next to the jar of sambal and the bottle of black vinegar.
And it's almost a guarantee that unless you are a tofu-white Midwesterner, nothing where you are now really tastes like home unless you make it yourself.
Here are two recipes that taste like home to me, though my mother would have been shocked and horrified had she known that I ate stuff like this (or even brought it into the house).
The first one is an almost black meat soup-stew from Java, made with kluwak nuts (the seed of the Kulape tree (Kepayang; Pangium Edule). Kluwak which are available in the west are thoroughly processed and have been dried - they must be made soft by steeping in a little hot water for about ten or fifteen minutes, whereupon they may be mashed to a smooth paste with ease. They add a nice 'rusty' fragrance to dishes, and change the colour to brown-black. Very delicious.
RAWON
[Javanese black soup-stew]
One pound stew beef or lamb chunks.
One onion, chopped.
One stalk sere (lemongrass), bruised.
Three to five cloves garlic, mashed, and an equivalent amount of ginger, ditto.
One teaspoon ground coriander.
Half a teaspoon each: turmeric, cayenne, cumin, langkwang powder.
Half a dozen soaked kluwak nuts, mashed up in a little hot water.
A few daon parot (kaffir lime leaves).
Pinches salt, pepper, sugar.
Scallion and cilantro to garnish.
Gild onion in oil, add the garlic and ginger, stir briefly, add the spices, then the meat. Cook, stirring, till the meat is no longer pink and the fragrance rises. Seethe with a little water and add the mashed kluwak, stirring to dissolve. Add everything else, plus water to cover generously. Simmer for about an hour. Garnish with scallion and cilantro.
GANGKIYAP
[Tamarao potato and bamboo shoot curry]
Three cups match-stick cut potato.
One cup bamboo shoot, ditto.
Two or three shallots, minced.
Three to five cloves garlic, mashed, and an equivalent amount of ginger, ditto.
Three to five Roma tomatoes; peeled, seeded, chopped.
One and a half teaspoons each: cayenne, ground coriander.
Half a teaspoon each: ground cumin, turmeric.
Half a tablespoon shrimp paste, OR a suitable pinch of salt.
Generous pinch of sugar.
Half a cup each: ricewine or sherry, coconut milk, meat broth.
Cilantro and sliced green chilies to garnish.
Gild shallots in oil, add the garlic and ginger, stir briefly, add the spices, stir till fragrant, and seethe with a little water. Add the potato, cook for about five minutes till the liquid is gone. Add everything else, including the liquids, and cook for another ten or fifteen minutes (depends on how thick your matchstick cut potatoes are). Garnish and serve.
Taken together, these two dishes, with a bowl of clear broth, a plate of plain boiled rice, some sambal (hot chili paste), plus a few raw or blanched vegetables to dip in the sambal, will make a very satisfying meal. Have lime wedges on the side, both for squeezing over the dishes as well as acidulating the broth - especially if it is a fish broth.
As regards sambal, Dutch people usually serve it directly from the store-bought jar and glop it onto the plate (sometimes right onto the food!), Indos and well-bred Javanese have a bowl of sambal freshly made on the table, from which each diner will transfer some to a small condiment saucer. This may be tailored to personal taste with a dash of patis (amber liquid fish sauce), ketjap manis (sweet dark soy sauce), lime juice, or black vinegar. In the Indonesian countryside it is often served in the mortar in which it was mashed, and the diners will scoop some onto their plate as needed.
One eats these foods using spoons and forks off of porcelain (spoon to eat, fork as a pushing device). The table setting includes a plate for each diner, as well as condiment saucers, soup bowls, and a bone bowl (for refuse and inedible bits). Almost no-one eats off of banana leaves anymore, and dulang (centre-footed round wooden presentation and serving trays) are also seldom used, though prized as cultural objects and heirlooms.
-------------------------------------------
Note regarding ingredients mentioned in the recipes:
Sere: Lemongrass (sere, serai, sae). A tropical stalk-grass that smells like candied lemon. Available in S.E. Asian markets. Keeps away bugs, so worth growing in your backyard.
Langkwang: Galangal (lengkuas, laos); related to ginger, has an old-fashioned almost medicinal smell. Do not use the dried LengKeung available in Chinatown, though - while it is a close relative, it is more suited for cooking bushmeats (!) as tonic than regular meats as dinner table food. The proportions used are also different.
Daon Parot: Kaffir lime leaf; a leaf that adds a fragrance between tea-rose and citrus. No substitute, but not absolutely essential. It can be purchased in markets catering to a Thai and Indonesian clientele.
Bamboo shoot: Edible young bamboo (called 'rabong' in Indonesian languages). Can be purchased in Chinatown in cans already blanched and sliced matchstickwise - simply rinse and drain before use.
If using fresh bamboo shoot, peel them, and trim away the root and any overly fibrous parts. Cut to the shape desired, and boil in a large pan of water for about twenty minutes. Do not cover the pan. This process removes the bitterness that makes raw shoots appealing only to pandas. Taste a little afterwards. If there is still some remaining bitterness, change the water and boil for another five minutes or so. Drain and rinse. Don't worry, they'll still be crunchy after cooking. Bamboo shoots are very low in calories, but a great source of fibre (hah, what a surprise!). They are reputed to be good for the heart, and both anti-viral and anti-cancerous in their effect on the body. Plus they taste good. That last bit is the most important reason to eat them. Really the only reason.
Shrimp paste: Trasi is the Indonesian version, being a dried dark brown smelly substance reminiscent of a bouillion cube..... A salty fishy rotten bouillion cube.
The Philippinos have various similar preparations, generically called bago'ong, which represent various stages of fragrance and chemical instability - not recommended.
Nowadays I use the Cantonese version (鹹蝦醬 - haam haa jeung), which is a pungent purple-grey goop in a jar that keeps forever. It is high in salt, but also other minerals. Not very nutritious, but when cooked it is oh so tasty. Dipping green mango into a little of this is pure heaven. It should be in every kitchen, right next to the jar of sambal and the bottle of black vinegar.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
HEART ATTACK ON A PLATE II
Years ago, when I worked at the restaurant, I would often hear the owner waxing poetic about the marvelous benefits of Indian food. It was a miracle of good diet, healthy, good for the heart, delicious, and a supreme mark of an ancient and refined culture.
Plus many more superlatives. It's good for you!
I once heard him launch into this shpiel to a customer who was waiting for a take-out order. While he lyrically sang the healthful praises of his favourite cuisine, I glanced at the customer's bill..........
Murgh Makhni, Chicken Tikka Masala, and Garlic Naan - two versions of chicken drenched in butter sauce, plus bread slathered with melted butter.
The restaurant, as far as I know, did not serve anything that lacked ghee except for drinks and kachumber salad. A triple bacon-cheese burger would've been healthier than a serving of the two most popular dishes - murgh makhni and chicken tikka masala. Both of these are made by taking chunked cooked chicken and serving it in a sauce composed of butter, cream, tomato, and spices. Lots of butter. Half a stick each at least. Do you feel your arteries solidifying yet? That crackling sound is your crystallized blood-vessels crinkling as you bend over with heart-pains. You'll keep forever with that amount of wax in your veins.
Indian Restaurant Food is hardly the healthgiving benevolent cuisine that you have been told.
Not that it makes much difference to me, as one of my favourite dishes qualifies as a heart-destroying artery clogger of bio-war proportions.
RANDANGAN BABUI
[Dutch east Indies style seethed pork]
Two pounds pork belly (the cut known in Chinatown as 五花 腩 - ng-fa naam - five flower fatty abdominal meat).
Two TBS wet shrimp paste (the nice purple stinky stuff available in C'town called 鹹蝦醬 - haam haa jeung - salty shrimp sauce).
Four or five cloves garlic, and equivalent amount ginger, chopped up.
A dash of dark vinegar.
A dash of soy sauce.
A teaspoon or two of sugar.
Don't bother cutting up the nice streaky meat, just put it into a pot with all the other ingredients and water to cover. Bring to a boil, simmer for an hour and a half - the liquid will reduce much, and some of the fat will render. Take the lump of meat out and let it dry and cool. The cooking juices may be reserved for a dipping sauce, with lots of mashed hot chilies added after skimming off the fat.
Cut the meat into thick flat chunks. Seethe these in oil (low-heat fry) till nicely golden. Turn over carefully, and do the same to the other side. Garnish with cilantro and scallion.
Note that this is an extremely rich ('greasy') dish. It need not be eaten by itself, but can be served as one dish out of many on the table. If the pork is seethed till dark, it keeps without refrigeration for a day or two at least. Chopped up it is a nice addition to noodle soups or simmered vegetables. Always have lime wedges on the side.
Your doctor does NOT want to hear about it.
Plus many more superlatives. It's good for you!
I once heard him launch into this shpiel to a customer who was waiting for a take-out order. While he lyrically sang the healthful praises of his favourite cuisine, I glanced at the customer's bill..........
Murgh Makhni, Chicken Tikka Masala, and Garlic Naan - two versions of chicken drenched in butter sauce, plus bread slathered with melted butter.
The restaurant, as far as I know, did not serve anything that lacked ghee except for drinks and kachumber salad. A triple bacon-cheese burger would've been healthier than a serving of the two most popular dishes - murgh makhni and chicken tikka masala. Both of these are made by taking chunked cooked chicken and serving it in a sauce composed of butter, cream, tomato, and spices. Lots of butter. Half a stick each at least. Do you feel your arteries solidifying yet? That crackling sound is your crystallized blood-vessels crinkling as you bend over with heart-pains. You'll keep forever with that amount of wax in your veins.
Indian Restaurant Food is hardly the healthgiving benevolent cuisine that you have been told.
Not that it makes much difference to me, as one of my favourite dishes qualifies as a heart-destroying artery clogger of bio-war proportions.
RANDANGAN BABUI
[Dutch east Indies style seethed pork]
Two pounds pork belly (the cut known in Chinatown as 五花 腩 - ng-fa naam - five flower fatty abdominal meat).
Two TBS wet shrimp paste (the nice purple stinky stuff available in C'town called 鹹蝦醬 - haam haa jeung - salty shrimp sauce).
Four or five cloves garlic, and equivalent amount ginger, chopped up.
A dash of dark vinegar.
A dash of soy sauce.
A teaspoon or two of sugar.
Don't bother cutting up the nice streaky meat, just put it into a pot with all the other ingredients and water to cover. Bring to a boil, simmer for an hour and a half - the liquid will reduce much, and some of the fat will render. Take the lump of meat out and let it dry and cool. The cooking juices may be reserved for a dipping sauce, with lots of mashed hot chilies added after skimming off the fat.
Cut the meat into thick flat chunks. Seethe these in oil (low-heat fry) till nicely golden. Turn over carefully, and do the same to the other side. Garnish with cilantro and scallion.
Note that this is an extremely rich ('greasy') dish. It need not be eaten by itself, but can be served as one dish out of many on the table. If the pork is seethed till dark, it keeps without refrigeration for a day or two at least. Chopped up it is a nice addition to noodle soups or simmered vegetables. Always have lime wedges on the side.
Your doctor does NOT want to hear about it.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
HOT AND STICKY GOODNESS
That year Ramadan was from the end of May through the third week of June. Halfway through the month the weather changed. The mid-afternoon rainstorms decreased, the winds brought more heat. But there were only a few days with no rain at all, and just as few that were entirely too hot. Still, it is a humid climate, and considerably warmer than California. Even the locals went limp from heat and hunger.
One did not necessarily want to eat during the day, but that it was not possible was a burden. Right around teatime one would get up, sponge off, and regretfully realize that there was no cardamom coffee, no ginger tea, no horrid sweet softdrink with electric green or red fake colour, and entirely no food at all to be had. One would grumble in concert with one's stomach.
At sundown one walked toward the mosque, hoping that the vendors would have set up shop before magrib prayers ended, drifts of fragrance from their fires tempting the faithful in the courtyard. Tungkoludi was not a particularly exciting place, and food was one of it's sparse charms.
During Ramadan, that charm was only evident at night.
Sop Manok Mi = Chicken and noodle soup with fried tuber-chunks, mildly curry flavoured, with oily red chili sambal and huge wedges of cucumber. Lime wedge on the side.
Krawan = Goat meat and liver marinated in lime juice with garlic, ginger, and turmeric, flame-broiled, served with sweet-soy sauce and lime wedges.
Kurok Magureng = Frog marinated in vinegar and lime juice, deep-fried and served with a sambal of chilies, soy sauce, and sugar.
These and other quick dishes (sate kambing, krupok urang, tjao kangkong, luomi, pitjil batawi) were all quite delicious.
One would've hoped to have had a chance to enjoy them before dying of starvation.
Not in Tungkoludi.
The one thing that was both perfect for the time of day and the place was katupat. The hot packets fresh off the coals and smelling of scorched banana leaf, that one pulled apart with burnt fingertips, revealing a gooey sweet mass inside, were the very best way to start the night.
A quick snack, scarfed down greedily, which raised the blood-sugar level back to normal and kept one from killing the innocent natives.
Step back, bitch, these are mine!
KATUPAT
3 cups glutinous rice.
1 - 1½ cups golden cane sugar.
Either two bananas, peeled and chunked.
OR
Strips of meat from two young coconuts.
Banana leaves for wrapping
Soak rice in water for two hours. Drain, and grind to a smooth doughy consistency. Mix the sugar and the banana or coconut into the rice dough.
Wipe banana leaves clean, and pass over the fire. Cut into squares about the size of a plate.
Spread the rice mixture thinly over half of each piece of banana leaf, then roll into a sausage shape. Grill over coals till the inside is hot and goopy and the outside somewhat singed.
Serve warm.
Makes about two dozen pieces.
Have them with cardamom coffee.
Ramadan ends today.
Eid mubarak, y'all.
One did not necessarily want to eat during the day, but that it was not possible was a burden. Right around teatime one would get up, sponge off, and regretfully realize that there was no cardamom coffee, no ginger tea, no horrid sweet softdrink with electric green or red fake colour, and entirely no food at all to be had. One would grumble in concert with one's stomach.
At sundown one walked toward the mosque, hoping that the vendors would have set up shop before magrib prayers ended, drifts of fragrance from their fires tempting the faithful in the courtyard. Tungkoludi was not a particularly exciting place, and food was one of it's sparse charms.
During Ramadan, that charm was only evident at night.
Sop Manok Mi = Chicken and noodle soup with fried tuber-chunks, mildly curry flavoured, with oily red chili sambal and huge wedges of cucumber. Lime wedge on the side.
Krawan = Goat meat and liver marinated in lime juice with garlic, ginger, and turmeric, flame-broiled, served with sweet-soy sauce and lime wedges.
Kurok Magureng = Frog marinated in vinegar and lime juice, deep-fried and served with a sambal of chilies, soy sauce, and sugar.
These and other quick dishes (sate kambing, krupok urang, tjao kangkong, luomi, pitjil batawi) were all quite delicious.
One would've hoped to have had a chance to enjoy them before dying of starvation.
Not in Tungkoludi.
The one thing that was both perfect for the time of day and the place was katupat. The hot packets fresh off the coals and smelling of scorched banana leaf, that one pulled apart with burnt fingertips, revealing a gooey sweet mass inside, were the very best way to start the night.
A quick snack, scarfed down greedily, which raised the blood-sugar level back to normal and kept one from killing the innocent natives.
Step back, bitch, these are mine!
KATUPAT
3 cups glutinous rice.
1 - 1½ cups golden cane sugar.
Either two bananas, peeled and chunked.
OR
Strips of meat from two young coconuts.
Banana leaves for wrapping
Soak rice in water for two hours. Drain, and grind to a smooth doughy consistency. Mix the sugar and the banana or coconut into the rice dough.
Wipe banana leaves clean, and pass over the fire. Cut into squares about the size of a plate.
Spread the rice mixture thinly over half of each piece of banana leaf, then roll into a sausage shape. Grill over coals till the inside is hot and goopy and the outside somewhat singed.
Serve warm.
Makes about two dozen pieces.
Have them with cardamom coffee.
Ramadan ends today.
Eid mubarak, y'all.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
SEVEN HUNDRED BILLION IN POCKET-MONEY
The American people, and their hired hacks in Washington, are right to be somewhat cautious about the bail-out package. Especially as the same clever people who got us into this mess are now offering to get us out. At a price.
From news articles, and reading between the lines:
Bush warns over bail-out delay.
[Translation: "My friends are going belly up! How can you not care?!?!"]
US President George W Bush warned the US economy is at a 'critical moment', and vowed to ram his Wall Street rescue plan through Congress.
[Like the Patriot Act?]
He said the consequences would be 'painful and lasting' if the $700 billion deal rejected by the US House of Representatives was not passed.
[To whom?]
He offered reassurances to citizens of the US and wider world that the current political deadlock would be resolved.
[Of course it will. But not necessarily the way he would like.]
The New York stock market opened with prices up after Mr Bush's statement. The Dow Jones index was about 2% higher in initial trading, rebounding from Monday's record losses.
[Hot air is good for business - who knew?]
In Brussels, the European Union earlier urged Washington to live up to its special responsibility and demonstrate statesmanship to resolve the global credit crisis.
[Translation: "If you Yanks don't act, all of us Europeans will suffer, because we jumped into the American market like a bunch of piranhas devouring a horse. It was good for our pension funds, central banks, investment companies - we profited from your lack of regulation, but heck, why should we pay for the risks we took? So please, screw the American taxpayers!
If you don't, our people will start asking questions that we can't answer, they might even be very upset with us, and they too think that the American taxpayer should be screwed."]
For the second time in as many days on Tuesday, Western European governments stepped in to prop up an ailing financial institution. The French and Belgian governments rescued the Franco-Belgian financial services group, Dexia, with a package totaling more than $9bn. Dexia's share price had fallen sharply following reports that it was seeking extra funds after governments bailed out its rival, Fortis. [Rabbosai, maybe this will teach you to be more careful and responsible in the future. If it does, you can all be a shining example to our own rapacious bankers and Texans - and they might actually pay attention, now that they've realized that greed alone does not guarantee wealth and respect.]
President Bush said: "We are in an urgent situation and the consequences will grow worse each day if we do not act,"
[Right, giving in to extortion by the same gangsters who got us into this mess is the solution.]
"This is not the end of the legislative process. Our country is not facing a choice between government action and the smooth functioning of the free market,"
[The market will continue to function, smoothly, but at a more realistic level - and that means electoral disaster for the people who told y'all to merrily spend yourselves into cloud-cuckoo land. You might loose the SUV you can't afford along with that suburban neo-Tudor ranch, which you couldn't afford either. That private school for your two little delinquents? Sorry, you're gonna have to finally face-up to the trainwreck we've made of public education in this country; you though it was just a deserved screwing of the urban poor, didn't you?]
"We're facing a choice between action and the real prospect of economic hardship for millions of Americans."
[The middle-classes might have to pay their credit-card bills, and realize that they were not financially stable enough for that mortgage. And that would be horrible - it would finally make it clear to them that sharks gutted the American dream, and bribed them with their own money. Might actually make them think. And that would be very dangerous.]
Republican presidential candidate John McCain said he was disappointed at the "lack of resolve" shown by both parties in the US House of Representatives.
"The whole spectrum of Main Street America's economy is going to be jeopardized unless we pass this legislation. And we didn't do a good enough job selling it."
[Dude, main street died years ago - ever since Walmart opened up down the road and sucked the life out of every small retailer from here to Timbuktoo. Have you driven down main street lately? Alcoholics and boarded up storefronts. Except for that stretch near McDonalds...., you know, the part of town with the Starbucks, Boo King, Jack in the Box, Pet-Groomers, Jogging Shoe chain-emporia, and nail-salons run by Vietnamese women rotting their nervous systems breathing solvents while pandering to the self-indulgence of suburban white women.]
Both the president and the two gentlemen who hope to succeed him in January are under pressure to show leadership amid the partisan bickering which has followed the bill's failure.
[Leadership? Hooha. Try less pandering to special interests, more actual thoughtfulness. You guys would be surprised what "main street" America really thinks of you and your whore-like behaviour.]
The candidates both backed lifting the limit on bank deposit insurance from the present $100,000 to $250,000 to prevent any run on commercial banks.
[Really, boys, how many people do you know have that kinda poon in their account? Oh, sorry, I forgot - y'all ain't dealing with real Americans, but with the people who can afford to shell out several thousand for the pleasure of dining with you at fundraising soirees.]
Republicans and Democrats are blaming each other over the failed bill, which was rejected by 228 to 205 votes in the House of Representatives on Monday.
[Well, at least some of those turkeys blew a fat raspberry at the thugs trying to railroad us into paying for their stupidity. Bravo.]
The House is not due to meet again until Thursday as many members have gone home for a Jewish holiday.
[Sollst alln hobn a gezunte, ziesse, und gebentshte rosheshone, le shana tova tikasevu ve sechasemu, le chayim tovim u le shalom, be sifran shel politikim gamurim.]
As you may have gathered, I am not heavily vested in bailing out Wall Street - far less so than many Europeans, in fact. I've got more of an emotional stake in seeing some hangings.
From news articles, and reading between the lines:
Bush warns over bail-out delay.
[Translation: "My friends are going belly up! How can you not care?!?!"]
US President George W Bush warned the US economy is at a 'critical moment', and vowed to ram his Wall Street rescue plan through Congress.
[Like the Patriot Act?]
He said the consequences would be 'painful and lasting' if the $700 billion deal rejected by the US House of Representatives was not passed.
[To whom?]
He offered reassurances to citizens of the US and wider world that the current political deadlock would be resolved.
[Of course it will. But not necessarily the way he would like.]
The New York stock market opened with prices up after Mr Bush's statement. The Dow Jones index was about 2% higher in initial trading, rebounding from Monday's record losses.
[Hot air is good for business - who knew?]
In Brussels, the European Union earlier urged Washington to live up to its special responsibility and demonstrate statesmanship to resolve the global credit crisis.
[Translation: "If you Yanks don't act, all of us Europeans will suffer, because we jumped into the American market like a bunch of piranhas devouring a horse. It was good for our pension funds, central banks, investment companies - we profited from your lack of regulation, but heck, why should we pay for the risks we took? So please, screw the American taxpayers!
If you don't, our people will start asking questions that we can't answer, they might even be very upset with us, and they too think that the American taxpayer should be screwed."]
For the second time in as many days on Tuesday, Western European governments stepped in to prop up an ailing financial institution. The French and Belgian governments rescued the Franco-Belgian financial services group, Dexia, with a package totaling more than $9bn. Dexia's share price had fallen sharply following reports that it was seeking extra funds after governments bailed out its rival, Fortis. [Rabbosai, maybe this will teach you to be more careful and responsible in the future. If it does, you can all be a shining example to our own rapacious bankers and Texans - and they might actually pay attention, now that they've realized that greed alone does not guarantee wealth and respect.]
President Bush said: "We are in an urgent situation and the consequences will grow worse each day if we do not act,"
[Right, giving in to extortion by the same gangsters who got us into this mess is the solution.]
"This is not the end of the legislative process. Our country is not facing a choice between government action and the smooth functioning of the free market,"
[The market will continue to function, smoothly, but at a more realistic level - and that means electoral disaster for the people who told y'all to merrily spend yourselves into cloud-cuckoo land. You might loose the SUV you can't afford along with that suburban neo-Tudor ranch, which you couldn't afford either. That private school for your two little delinquents? Sorry, you're gonna have to finally face-up to the trainwreck we've made of public education in this country; you though it was just a deserved screwing of the urban poor, didn't you?]
"We're facing a choice between action and the real prospect of economic hardship for millions of Americans."
[The middle-classes might have to pay their credit-card bills, and realize that they were not financially stable enough for that mortgage. And that would be horrible - it would finally make it clear to them that sharks gutted the American dream, and bribed them with their own money. Might actually make them think. And that would be very dangerous.]
Republican presidential candidate John McCain said he was disappointed at the "lack of resolve" shown by both parties in the US House of Representatives.
"The whole spectrum of Main Street America's economy is going to be jeopardized unless we pass this legislation. And we didn't do a good enough job selling it."
[Dude, main street died years ago - ever since Walmart opened up down the road and sucked the life out of every small retailer from here to Timbuktoo. Have you driven down main street lately? Alcoholics and boarded up storefronts. Except for that stretch near McDonalds...., you know, the part of town with the Starbucks, Boo King, Jack in the Box, Pet-Groomers, Jogging Shoe chain-emporia, and nail-salons run by Vietnamese women rotting their nervous systems breathing solvents while pandering to the self-indulgence of suburban white women.]
Both the president and the two gentlemen who hope to succeed him in January are under pressure to show leadership amid the partisan bickering which has followed the bill's failure.
[Leadership? Hooha. Try less pandering to special interests, more actual thoughtfulness. You guys would be surprised what "main street" America really thinks of you and your whore-like behaviour.]
The candidates both backed lifting the limit on bank deposit insurance from the present $100,000 to $250,000 to prevent any run on commercial banks.
[Really, boys, how many people do you know have that kinda poon in their account? Oh, sorry, I forgot - y'all ain't dealing with real Americans, but with the people who can afford to shell out several thousand for the pleasure of dining with you at fundraising soirees.]
Republicans and Democrats are blaming each other over the failed bill, which was rejected by 228 to 205 votes in the House of Representatives on Monday.
[Well, at least some of those turkeys blew a fat raspberry at the thugs trying to railroad us into paying for their stupidity. Bravo.]
The House is not due to meet again until Thursday as many members have gone home for a Jewish holiday.
[Sollst alln hobn a gezunte, ziesse, und gebentshte rosheshone, le shana tova tikasevu ve sechasemu, le chayim tovim u le shalom, be sifran shel politikim gamurim.]
As you may have gathered, I am not heavily vested in bailing out Wall Street - far less so than many Europeans, in fact. I've got more of an emotional stake in seeing some hangings.
Monday, September 29, 2008
FURRY FABULOUS FREAKS
Pursuant two items mentioned in Friday's posting: ONE, I do NOT have a hairy posterior. Any mention of the hirsuteness of my tuches was purely the invention of my significant other, by whose standards all white people are overly endowed with fur, fuz, pelt, hairy bits, and navel-lint. Chinese people are not so fortunate, and consequently I believe she resents my rather modest topographic behairedness.
Repeat, not hairy - except in her beady little eyes, at seven-thirty in the morning, when she is full of sugar and in a feisty mood. I feel I must stress this, because I have heard that the young daughter of a friend let out a stream of ew! ew! ew! and several icks upon reading Friday's post over her mother's shoulder. Which was almost immediately followed by the question "does he really have a hairy ....?", and the snapped response thereto "how the heck should I know? Why don't you ask him yourself!".
Again, no dense moss on the keel. Despite evil rumours to the contrary.
And item number TWO: Attended the Folsom Street Fair yesterday. As previously mentioned, it was in an informative and educational capacity.
Never have so many naked men been so glad to see me. One would scarce have thought it possible that a fully clothed person smoking a pipe and wearing a kippah would be so welcomed.
[I do not often wear a kippah in public, but if everyone else is wearing tribal colours (or by their lack of clothing advertising affiliations), then it makes sense that I too should "express my individuality by dressing like my companions". And note that many attendees did just that by being undressed exactly alike.]
First one up was a Jewish gentleman from Fresno, with whom my colleague and I had a nice long chat about Israel and pro-Israel activism. This is when I realized that it would be best for me to stand the entire time, so as to be able to have a face to face conversation. My colleague, however, had to remain seated most of the day due to a physical infirmity, poor man. He coped with that situation by frequent reference to a bottle of single-malt.
My associate has informed me that he wishes to forget for the rest of his life that this day ever happened, and I shall be sure to remind him in detail of the day when he is sober again.
The pamphlets about the legal position of gays in Israel, and the freedoms accorded them, as well as their serving in the IDF, were extremely popular. Even to people who were fully clothed.
The happy pro-Israel prophylactics (slogan: "Israel - It's still safe to come") proved a smash hit ("they're like fortune cookies - you never know what you'll find inside").
Several people took them with the excuse "I'm getting these for my friend; he's Jewish". Many of the people who said this were girls. One of whom gave a disciplined nod to modesty by wearing nipple-clamps with chains that kept her err, ums from doing anything untoward.
I do not know what she was wearing below the navel, as I maintained eye-contact.
Oddly, I cannot remember what her face looked like at all.
A cluster of dear sweet goth dominatrix lolita-types grabbed handfuls to stock the bathroom at work. I forgot to ask them where they work.
By physical evidence alone, the majority of men attending the fair may have been Jewish. Even the little Asian gentleman with no place to put the free literature or the condoms.
Many people wore black. I doubt that they were chossids, but it made some of us feel right at home.
Some people combined fetishes - clamped and studded vampire pirate catgirl with fairy wings and a strap-on furry tail, or a fat man wearing leather gag hog mask, handcuffs, and a pink ballerina skirt.
Also some people dressed like European or Japanese tourists in the wrong part of town - now that's a twisted fetish I don't even want to know about, those people are just sick, along with the men wearing diapers.
After eleven hours of the fair, I know more about studs, clamps, rings, straps, collars, corsets, chains, leashes, lashes, tattoos, eye-liner, and tight leather negligee than is really healthy. On the other hand, several of the attendees now know more about Israel and the middle-east than they ever knew before, and several remarkably well-endowed Jews know that there is a group out there that fights back against the anti-Semitism with which the Bay Area is sodden. As do several sympathetic quite unJewish gentlemen.
[Including one wearing fetching yellow knee-pads and nothing else. ]
So yes, it was a productive and worthwhile day. I'm glad we did it. We must have talked to hundreds of very positive people, and given away well over a thousand pro-Israel condoms.
Put them to good use, ladies and gentlemen, and make someone happy. Use them in the best of health. Or pass them on to a friend. Feel the love.
Repeat, not hairy - except in her beady little eyes, at seven-thirty in the morning, when she is full of sugar and in a feisty mood. I feel I must stress this, because I have heard that the young daughter of a friend let out a stream of ew! ew! ew! and several icks upon reading Friday's post over her mother's shoulder. Which was almost immediately followed by the question "does he really have a hairy ....?", and the snapped response thereto "how the heck should I know? Why don't you ask him yourself!".
Again, no dense moss on the keel. Despite evil rumours to the contrary.
And item number TWO: Attended the Folsom Street Fair yesterday. As previously mentioned, it was in an informative and educational capacity.
Never have so many naked men been so glad to see me. One would scarce have thought it possible that a fully clothed person smoking a pipe and wearing a kippah would be so welcomed.
[I do not often wear a kippah in public, but if everyone else is wearing tribal colours (or by their lack of clothing advertising affiliations), then it makes sense that I too should "express my individuality by dressing like my companions". And note that many attendees did just that by being undressed exactly alike.]
First one up was a Jewish gentleman from Fresno, with whom my colleague and I had a nice long chat about Israel and pro-Israel activism. This is when I realized that it would be best for me to stand the entire time, so as to be able to have a face to face conversation. My colleague, however, had to remain seated most of the day due to a physical infirmity, poor man. He coped with that situation by frequent reference to a bottle of single-malt.
My associate has informed me that he wishes to forget for the rest of his life that this day ever happened, and I shall be sure to remind him in detail of the day when he is sober again.
The pamphlets about the legal position of gays in Israel, and the freedoms accorded them, as well as their serving in the IDF, were extremely popular. Even to people who were fully clothed.
The happy pro-Israel prophylactics (slogan: "Israel - It's still safe to come") proved a smash hit ("they're like fortune cookies - you never know what you'll find inside").
Several people took them with the excuse "I'm getting these for my friend; he's Jewish". Many of the people who said this were girls. One of whom gave a disciplined nod to modesty by wearing nipple-clamps with chains that kept her err, ums from doing anything untoward.
I do not know what she was wearing below the navel, as I maintained eye-contact.
Oddly, I cannot remember what her face looked like at all.
A cluster of dear sweet goth dominatrix lolita-types grabbed handfuls to stock the bathroom at work. I forgot to ask them where they work.
By physical evidence alone, the majority of men attending the fair may have been Jewish. Even the little Asian gentleman with no place to put the free literature or the condoms.
Many people wore black. I doubt that they were chossids, but it made some of us feel right at home.
Some people combined fetishes - clamped and studded vampire pirate catgirl with fairy wings and a strap-on furry tail, or a fat man wearing leather gag hog mask, handcuffs, and a pink ballerina skirt.
Also some people dressed like European or Japanese tourists in the wrong part of town - now that's a twisted fetish I don't even want to know about, those people are just sick, along with the men wearing diapers.
After eleven hours of the fair, I know more about studs, clamps, rings, straps, collars, corsets, chains, leashes, lashes, tattoos, eye-liner, and tight leather negligee than is really healthy. On the other hand, several of the attendees now know more about Israel and the middle-east than they ever knew before, and several remarkably well-endowed Jews know that there is a group out there that fights back against the anti-Semitism with which the Bay Area is sodden. As do several sympathetic quite unJewish gentlemen.
[Including one wearing fetching yellow knee-pads and nothing else. ]
So yes, it was a productive and worthwhile day. I'm glad we did it. We must have talked to hundreds of very positive people, and given away well over a thousand pro-Israel condoms.
Put them to good use, ladies and gentlemen, and make someone happy. Use them in the best of health. Or pass them on to a friend. Feel the love.
Friday, September 26, 2008
WAKING UP WITH A KITTEN
As of this morning, I realize that I really don't know what is up with that woman. When I got home last night she was asleep in what can only be described as the most uncomfortable position - no, I'm not going to describe it; just imagine your own most uncomfortable position and put some pajamas on - and she is currently going through a monthly biological process that I shall not describe either, so she should be drained, exhausted, pooped out, and just plain limp.
Yet she bounced out of bed this morning way before I did, full of bright cheerful piss and vinegar, oppressively vivacious. I stumbled out of bed quite a while later, stiff-jointed and feeling twinges of gout in both feet.
I grumblingly drank my coffee while she burbled.
I have told to her that I shall be at the Folsom Street Fair this Sunday, in connection with .... "education". So she brightly suggested that I should keep an especial eye out for men with hairy cheeks showing through the cut-outs in their ass-chaps.
[The Folsom Street Fair is the biggest leather event in San Francisco. Many of the big butch gentlemen who attend wear skimpy scanty leather get-ups and nearly nothing else. In recent years, more families and women have also attended. I shall be there in an informational function - I do not have leather clothing, and do not own any whips, riding crops, quirts, paddles, studded straps, spandex vests, cowhide diapers, ass-chaps, or buffalo skin tights.]
When I looked up from my coffee and asked her why I should look for such men, she said "because they might be related to you....., you know, hairy buttocks".
"My butt is not hairy!"
"How do you know? You've never seen it, I have."
"I've felt it - it is not hairy!! Not. At. All!!!"
"Sure it is. Kind of like two furry hibernating forest critters."
"Not!!!!!!"
"A pair of hugging hairy trolls, just waiting to jump out at unsuspecting travelers......."
I should mention at this point that Savage Kitten has a rich inner life, and, being of Chinese ancestry, may consider Caucasian skin to be impossibly fuzzy. But she has a tendency towards poetic exaggeration. Which her subsequent speculation on my eventual residence in a retirement home exemplified.
Apparently I shall be a source of constant fear and frustration for Doctor Gumbly and Nurse Twaddle.
"Doctor Gumbly, the patient is hiding weapons in his arse fur! We've already pulled a cleaver out of a dense patch!"
"Nurse Twaddle, use electric hedge-clippers and a rake!"
"I daren't, I don't know what else is still in there! I need a machete!"
"We have no machete! You know they don't allow them in retirement homes since that incident last year!"
"In that case, give me ten-foot pole and a hazmat suit!"
"Godspeed, and be careful! We can't afford another search-party if you get stranded!"
This is the same woman who has previously asserted that I shall probably be rolling after the caregivers in my wheelchair, leering lasciviously and making pervert sounds. Or running down innocent little schoolgirls with my walker and scaring them. A senile delinquent, and a veritable hazard to public order.
I think that all of this is merely her 'charming' way of making sure that I am awake in the morning, and properly riled up. Rhetorical shock-treatment, to startle the toad into a state of goggle-eyed alertness. Surely she does not believe that any of it is possible?
Yet perhaps I should control her caffeine-intake. I do not know how much of this cheerfulness a man is supposed to stand.
Besides, I am not a hairy pervert. As is well known.
Yet she bounced out of bed this morning way before I did, full of bright cheerful piss and vinegar, oppressively vivacious. I stumbled out of bed quite a while later, stiff-jointed and feeling twinges of gout in both feet.
I grumblingly drank my coffee while she burbled.
I have told to her that I shall be at the Folsom Street Fair this Sunday, in connection with .... "education". So she brightly suggested that I should keep an especial eye out for men with hairy cheeks showing through the cut-outs in their ass-chaps.
[The Folsom Street Fair is the biggest leather event in San Francisco. Many of the big butch gentlemen who attend wear skimpy scanty leather get-ups and nearly nothing else. In recent years, more families and women have also attended. I shall be there in an informational function - I do not have leather clothing, and do not own any whips, riding crops, quirts, paddles, studded straps, spandex vests, cowhide diapers, ass-chaps, or buffalo skin tights.]
When I looked up from my coffee and asked her why I should look for such men, she said "because they might be related to you....., you know, hairy buttocks".
"My butt is not hairy!"
"How do you know? You've never seen it, I have."
"I've felt it - it is not hairy!! Not. At. All!!!"
"Sure it is. Kind of like two furry hibernating forest critters."
"Not!!!!!!"
"A pair of hugging hairy trolls, just waiting to jump out at unsuspecting travelers......."
I should mention at this point that Savage Kitten has a rich inner life, and, being of Chinese ancestry, may consider Caucasian skin to be impossibly fuzzy. But she has a tendency towards poetic exaggeration. Which her subsequent speculation on my eventual residence in a retirement home exemplified.
Apparently I shall be a source of constant fear and frustration for Doctor Gumbly and Nurse Twaddle.
"Doctor Gumbly, the patient is hiding weapons in his arse fur! We've already pulled a cleaver out of a dense patch!"
"Nurse Twaddle, use electric hedge-clippers and a rake!"
"I daren't, I don't know what else is still in there! I need a machete!"
"We have no machete! You know they don't allow them in retirement homes since that incident last year!"
"In that case, give me ten-foot pole and a hazmat suit!"
"Godspeed, and be careful! We can't afford another search-party if you get stranded!"
This is the same woman who has previously asserted that I shall probably be rolling after the caregivers in my wheelchair, leering lasciviously and making pervert sounds. Or running down innocent little schoolgirls with my walker and scaring them. A senile delinquent, and a veritable hazard to public order.
I think that all of this is merely her 'charming' way of making sure that I am awake in the morning, and properly riled up. Rhetorical shock-treatment, to startle the toad into a state of goggle-eyed alertness. Surely she does not believe that any of it is possible?
Yet perhaps I should control her caffeine-intake. I do not know how much of this cheerfulness a man is supposed to stand.
Besides, I am not a hairy pervert. As is well known.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
THIS IS AMERICA, SPEAK ENGLISH DAMMIT!
That, more or less, was the gist of what some dude on the bus snapped at a little old lady.
Fortunately, she neither saw nor heard him, as she was deep in conversation with another little old lady.
I have often found the Chinese ability to be blissfully unaware of white people remarkable. Many Chinatown Chinese not only sometimes fail to register the distinct presence of a white person in their vicinity, but also have a hard time recognizing them at all. All of us white folk look alike, you see.
And whatever those sounds coming out of the lower halves of our faces are, they sure don't sound like a human language. It seems at all times as if we are having an argument with ourselves.
They wish we would learn Chinese and speak like civilized people.
White people, especially if they are not long-time San Francisco residents, tend to get irritated when Chinese refuse to speak English with each other. Surely "those people" are talking about whitey behind his back? What else could "they" be doing than conspiring against Caucasians? Are they saying I'm ugly? What, what, I have a booger hanging from my chin? Or are they telling each other where they can take away some white person's livelihood, or sell a white person's kidney? Hmmmph!
Let us examine a fairly typical Cantonese conversation, by two Toishanese persons on the Number One California Street bus heading into C'town.
[Canton: Kwang Chau, a southern province of China, which speaks a language more closely related phonetically to T'ang dynasty Chinese than to Mandarin. Toishan: a district in Canton, where many of the Chinese-Americans have relatives. The Toishanese dialect is not too different from city Cantonese, and many Toishanese are bilingual in both their own dialect and Cantonese. Besides often possessing a modicum of Mandarin proficiency.]
I shall refer to the first Toishanese gentleman as 'Little Mustache' (siu wew-soh), and the second as Smelly Foot ( chau keuk). Such casual and almost comedic handles are fairly typical nicknames among old acquaintances - I myself am often called 'Dow Sah' (red bean paste - a filling used in certain pastries and dumplings).
I think you'll agree that it is a very suspicious conversation. Yes.
Little Mustache: Wah, ho loi m-kien-ah nei, diem?
[Hey, haven't seen you in a long time, whazzup?]
Smelly Foot : Mow-yeh, hoei gong, nei ne?
[Much of nothing, going to work, and you?]
Little Mustache: Fan ok-kay laaaaa, gong yuen le. Wei, nei yi-ga tzo matyeh gong ah?
[Returning home (long drawn out vocal marker of finality), work over (short marker of completed aspect of the active verb). Hey, what kind of work do you do nowadays (questioning verbal off-glide)?]
Smelly Foot: Tzo woei-kai.
[Accounting.]
Little Mustache: Wah, key ho yeh, tzo low sai ma?
[Well, that's quite impressive, are you a boss?]
Smelly Foot: M-hai, m-tzo low sai, jauh hai tzo gong.
[No, not a boss, (just) doing a job.]
Little Mustache: Do key ho (g) me, fat-tat le nei. Ngoh jong hai foh key...... yat yeung e fan diem.
[Still, that's very good, you've had good luck. I'm still a waiter..... same kind of restaurant.]
Smelly Foot: Wah, ngoh teng-wa le nei-ge sai-low sien kiit-fan le ma, hai m-hai chan ge woh?
[Oh, (polite change of subject to avoid causing the other person to dwell on their current differences as far as jobs and income levels are concerned), I heard that your younger brother/younger male friend already got married, is it true?
Little Mustache: Yau hai, saam nien ji chien, nau-yuk-si.
[Sure did, three years ago, (in) New York city.]
Smelly Foot: Ay-yah, gong hay le, siu-so hai mut-yeoh ah?
[Well congratulations anyhow, his wife ('younger sister-in-law') is what kind of person?]
Little Mustache: Ah, keui ne, yau sam uh, yau leng ge, wong-sik tau fa.....
[Oh, she, well, a good person, pretty, blonde hair.....]
Smelly Foot: Waaaaaah!!!! Keui-yah kwai-muy lah maah?!? Kam keng ga![Whaaaaat?!?!?! She's a barbarian!?!!!!?! That's terrific!!]
Note: Kwai-muy literally means ghost-devil (kwai) younger sister (muy). One distinguishes among older and younger in all the familial terms.
Yes, as you can see they are clearly conspiring against us. We must absolutely be angry and put a stop to this right now. Did you hear what they called the blonde? Outrageous, I tell you what - they just aren't respecting the majority of the natives of this place. This is California, speak Spanish dammit!
Fortunately, she neither saw nor heard him, as she was deep in conversation with another little old lady.
I have often found the Chinese ability to be blissfully unaware of white people remarkable. Many Chinatown Chinese not only sometimes fail to register the distinct presence of a white person in their vicinity, but also have a hard time recognizing them at all. All of us white folk look alike, you see.
And whatever those sounds coming out of the lower halves of our faces are, they sure don't sound like a human language. It seems at all times as if we are having an argument with ourselves.
They wish we would learn Chinese and speak like civilized people.
White people, especially if they are not long-time San Francisco residents, tend to get irritated when Chinese refuse to speak English with each other. Surely "those people" are talking about whitey behind his back? What else could "they" be doing than conspiring against Caucasians? Are they saying I'm ugly? What, what, I have a booger hanging from my chin? Or are they telling each other where they can take away some white person's livelihood, or sell a white person's kidney? Hmmmph!
Let us examine a fairly typical Cantonese conversation, by two Toishanese persons on the Number One California Street bus heading into C'town.
[Canton: Kwang Chau, a southern province of China, which speaks a language more closely related phonetically to T'ang dynasty Chinese than to Mandarin. Toishan: a district in Canton, where many of the Chinese-Americans have relatives. The Toishanese dialect is not too different from city Cantonese, and many Toishanese are bilingual in both their own dialect and Cantonese. Besides often possessing a modicum of Mandarin proficiency.]
I shall refer to the first Toishanese gentleman as 'Little Mustache' (siu wew-soh), and the second as Smelly Foot ( chau keuk). Such casual and almost comedic handles are fairly typical nicknames among old acquaintances - I myself am often called 'Dow Sah' (red bean paste - a filling used in certain pastries and dumplings).
I think you'll agree that it is a very suspicious conversation. Yes.
Little Mustache: Wah, ho loi m-kien-ah nei, diem?
[Hey, haven't seen you in a long time, whazzup?]
Smelly Foot : Mow-yeh, hoei gong, nei ne?
[Much of nothing, going to work, and you?]
Little Mustache: Fan ok-kay laaaaa, gong yuen le. Wei, nei yi-ga tzo matyeh gong ah?
[Returning home (long drawn out vocal marker of finality), work over (short marker of completed aspect of the active verb). Hey, what kind of work do you do nowadays (questioning verbal off-glide)?]
Smelly Foot: Tzo woei-kai.
[Accounting.]
Little Mustache: Wah, key ho yeh, tzo low sai ma?
[Well, that's quite impressive, are you a boss?]
Smelly Foot: M-hai, m-tzo low sai, jauh hai tzo gong.
[No, not a boss, (just) doing a job.]
Little Mustache: Do key ho (g) me, fat-tat le nei. Ngoh jong hai foh key...... yat yeung e fan diem.
[Still, that's very good, you've had good luck. I'm still a waiter..... same kind of restaurant.]
Smelly Foot: Wah, ngoh teng-wa le nei-ge sai-low sien kiit-fan le ma, hai m-hai chan ge woh?
[Oh, (polite change of subject to avoid causing the other person to dwell on their current differences as far as jobs and income levels are concerned), I heard that your younger brother/younger male friend already got married, is it true?
Little Mustache: Yau hai, saam nien ji chien, nau-yuk-si.
[Sure did, three years ago, (in) New York city.]
Smelly Foot: Ay-yah, gong hay le, siu-so hai mut-yeoh ah?
[Well congratulations anyhow, his wife ('younger sister-in-law') is what kind of person?]
Little Mustache: Ah, keui ne, yau sam uh, yau leng ge, wong-sik tau fa.....
[Oh, she, well, a good person, pretty, blonde hair.....]
Smelly Foot: Waaaaaah!!!! Keui-yah kwai-muy lah maah?!? Kam keng ga![Whaaaaat?!?!?! She's a barbarian!?!!!!?! That's terrific!!]
Note: Kwai-muy literally means ghost-devil (kwai) younger sister (muy). One distinguishes among older and younger in all the familial terms.
Yes, as you can see they are clearly conspiring against us. We must absolutely be angry and put a stop to this right now. Did you hear what they called the blonde? Outrageous, I tell you what - they just aren't respecting the majority of the natives of this place. This is California, speak Spanish dammit!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
SEVERELY TWISTED TAILS
Despite the title, this is not about nekomimi, though it is about manga.
[Manga: Japanese graphic novels and comic-strips. Nekomimi: catgirls - usually impossibly vixenish damsels with cat ears and long furry tails that extend out from their short short skirts or tight tight shorts.]
There are three manga series which I am currently reading: Chibi Vampire, Pretty Face, and Ghost Talker's Daydream.
CHIBI VAMPIRE
The first is a charming tale about a defective teenage vampire, who is easily embarrassed. Unlike other members of her family, Karin doesn't hide during daytime, and doesn't drink blood - she expels it in huge gushing torrents from her nose once a month instead. Yes, nosebleeds are a Japanese illustrative convention indicating sexual excitement. No, here it simply means that she is chock-full of blood. And let us not talk about what 'normal' girls do once a month with blood.
Volume ten hit the bookstore recently, and I have already devoured it (tongue delicately rimming the lips of my slightly open mouth). I have been avidly following the story since I first discovered it several months ago, and I delight in every new twist to Karin and her shy classmate Kenta Usui's budding relationship. There is nothing sexual here (unless you have a filthy mind, which I do), and the interplay of the various characters has a distinct dysfunctional charm.
There are some memorable bits - "Mommy, why are you dragging daddy across the floor?" "'Cause he's an idiot, that's why!". But mostly it is just a charming romance between two young people who are social klutzes, against a background of their friends and relatives who are also not entirely socially adept. Most especially so the eternally young sex-bomb grandmother, whose psychotic episodes and homicidal tendencies paint a much more cheering picture of senescence than we normally expect.
PRETTY FACE
Self-centered dim bulb high school karate club leader wakes from a coma more than a year after a disastrous traffic accident. Psychotic plastic surgeon Dr. Jun Manabe has worked on him during that time, and restored him to normal appearance.
The problem is that Dr. Manabe didn't know who he was working on, and has rebuilt his face to exactly resemble the girl that our hero had a schoolboy crush on........ Who, with her family, are now convinced that the long-lost twin sister has finally returned after running away several months ago. Albeit with some gaps in her memory.
Doctor Manabe wants to finish the job - a full sex change, with some nips, tucks, inserts - the young man will not hear of it. Meanwhile, everybody is convinced that he is indeed a girl.
It's a straightforward story about your basic gender-bending cross-dressing ultra-cute border-line hermaphrodite, in other words. With plenty of scope for high camp, high jinks, and high drama.
It just isn't particularly good.
By the end of volume two there is little more there than a tale featuring a cast of sexy girls drawn in a stereotypic fashion, with frequent panty shots, panic about being discovered, drooling schoolboys from the karate club (who do not realize that the object of their affection is their former leader), and scenes of amusing discomfit.
This is scarcely worth a second glance - I doubt I will purchase any further volumes.
GHOST TALKER'S DAYDREAM
Small violent teenage albino necromancing dominatrix solves crimes. Great story, surprisingly low level of fan-service (Fan Service: curvy thighs, tight cotton panties, lacy bra edges, etcetera - in this case some rather startling outfits that leave almost nothing to the imagination while nevertheless leaving everything to the imagination).
Humour: What do you do when you're not wearing panties, because a stalker who broke into your apartment stole them all (leaving several thousand yen in their place), and you stumble and land on your posterior, your short dress flipped up to expose your paipan to a garage full of startled mechanics?
Do you A) explain that no underwear and no pubic hair is healthy, good for the circulation; B) inform them you are merely obeying your dying mom's last wish; C) kill all witnesses and dispose of their bodies in the trunk of a car; or D) furiously act as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.
The answer, it turns out, is D.
High heels are dangerous. I've always thought so. This proved it.
A kinui is a daemon rope that serves it's mistress, and will only feed on a victim if she permits it. Normally it is hidden on her body, masquerading as typical Japanese rope-bondage art, interwoven and connecting like a complicated and symmetrical cats-cradle tightly wound around the torso and the fatty thighs.
Mmmmmm, fatty thighs.
[Manga: Japanese graphic novels and comic-strips. Nekomimi: catgirls - usually impossibly vixenish damsels with cat ears and long furry tails that extend out from their short short skirts or tight tight shorts.]
There are three manga series which I am currently reading: Chibi Vampire, Pretty Face, and Ghost Talker's Daydream.
CHIBI VAMPIRE
The first is a charming tale about a defective teenage vampire, who is easily embarrassed. Unlike other members of her family, Karin doesn't hide during daytime, and doesn't drink blood - she expels it in huge gushing torrents from her nose once a month instead. Yes, nosebleeds are a Japanese illustrative convention indicating sexual excitement. No, here it simply means that she is chock-full of blood. And let us not talk about what 'normal' girls do once a month with blood.
Volume ten hit the bookstore recently, and I have already devoured it (tongue delicately rimming the lips of my slightly open mouth). I have been avidly following the story since I first discovered it several months ago, and I delight in every new twist to Karin and her shy classmate Kenta Usui's budding relationship. There is nothing sexual here (unless you have a filthy mind, which I do), and the interplay of the various characters has a distinct dysfunctional charm.
There are some memorable bits - "Mommy, why are you dragging daddy across the floor?" "'Cause he's an idiot, that's why!". But mostly it is just a charming romance between two young people who are social klutzes, against a background of their friends and relatives who are also not entirely socially adept. Most especially so the eternally young sex-bomb grandmother, whose psychotic episodes and homicidal tendencies paint a much more cheering picture of senescence than we normally expect.
PRETTY FACE
Self-centered dim bulb high school karate club leader wakes from a coma more than a year after a disastrous traffic accident. Psychotic plastic surgeon Dr. Jun Manabe has worked on him during that time, and restored him to normal appearance.
The problem is that Dr. Manabe didn't know who he was working on, and has rebuilt his face to exactly resemble the girl that our hero had a schoolboy crush on........ Who, with her family, are now convinced that the long-lost twin sister has finally returned after running away several months ago. Albeit with some gaps in her memory.
Doctor Manabe wants to finish the job - a full sex change, with some nips, tucks, inserts - the young man will not hear of it. Meanwhile, everybody is convinced that he is indeed a girl.
It's a straightforward story about your basic gender-bending cross-dressing ultra-cute border-line hermaphrodite, in other words. With plenty of scope for high camp, high jinks, and high drama.
It just isn't particularly good.
By the end of volume two there is little more there than a tale featuring a cast of sexy girls drawn in a stereotypic fashion, with frequent panty shots, panic about being discovered, drooling schoolboys from the karate club (who do not realize that the object of their affection is their former leader), and scenes of amusing discomfit.
This is scarcely worth a second glance - I doubt I will purchase any further volumes.
GHOST TALKER'S DAYDREAM
Small violent teenage albino necromancing dominatrix solves crimes. Great story, surprisingly low level of fan-service (Fan Service: curvy thighs, tight cotton panties, lacy bra edges, etcetera - in this case some rather startling outfits that leave almost nothing to the imagination while nevertheless leaving everything to the imagination).
Humour: What do you do when you're not wearing panties, because a stalker who broke into your apartment stole them all (leaving several thousand yen in their place), and you stumble and land on your posterior, your short dress flipped up to expose your paipan to a garage full of startled mechanics?
Do you A) explain that no underwear and no pubic hair is healthy, good for the circulation; B) inform them you are merely obeying your dying mom's last wish; C) kill all witnesses and dispose of their bodies in the trunk of a car; or D) furiously act as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.
The answer, it turns out, is D.
High heels are dangerous. I've always thought so. This proved it.
A kinui is a daemon rope that serves it's mistress, and will only feed on a victim if she permits it. Normally it is hidden on her body, masquerading as typical Japanese rope-bondage art, interwoven and connecting like a complicated and symmetrical cats-cradle tightly wound around the torso and the fatty thighs.
Mmmmmm, fatty thighs.
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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,...
