One day a week is bagel day. It is not that we absolutely require bagels, it is that eating a bagel reconnects us with our souls. We are San Francisco office drudges, we eat the bagel.
It pacifies us. We have such small lives.
POOKY WASN'T ROADKILL - HE HAD RABIES!
Recently the company moved from one side of the building to the other. A new office kitchen had to be built, and painted, and swept, and finally connected to water and light. It is done now. It is sparkling and clean. Shiny.
It is very nice.
Unfortunately our bagel toaster was dirty. So it didn't get moved over.
Dirty things are a pain - who would possibly want them in our NEW kitchen?
The bread knives are old. They are NOT beautiful. They are merely sharp and functional.
Who on earth would want them in our new kitchen?
I shall not mention the microwave. It is not important in the bagel context.
Suffice to say that it too was ... wrong.
We have only nice elegant clean things in our new kitchen.
Coffee maker, blender, forks? No.
Some of us stroll over to the 'rebuild-zone' (our old office kitchen) and reclaim whatever we think necessary for civilized life. Slowly we are reconstructing the necessary frameworks.
This distresses the person placed in charge of the kitchen. Our new kitchen is starting to look far too much like the old kitchen.
He would rather that people would NOT remember that they once used certain things. Old things. Dirty things. Things that work.
A kitchen should be a temple to elegance, and cleanness.
Sparkly. Shiny.
Not functional.
This explains why there are four HERBAL teas, and utterly NO coffee in the new kitchen.
Decaffeination has 'cleanth', and 'elegacity'.
Being wide awake is messy, NOT pure and luminous!
For several years, there have been private stashes of coffee and real tea at most desks. Office drudgery require stimulation.
I have two giant boxes of teabags, and a supply of coffee fixings.
Others have their own hoards too.
This distresses the person placed in charge of the kitchen.
Such things belong in kitchen cabinets, not at desks!
The office environment should be smooth and elegant and professional!
Just like the kitchen.
This morning I reclaimed the bagel toaster.
As well as all the sharp sharp knives.
If he squawks, I will threaten him with my stuffed armadillo.
Dirty Pooky.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
EGGS! OR, THE CANTONESE CONTEXT FOR EVERYTHING
If you smell something, it’s my hard-boiled eggs. That was the remarkable message I recently received. As with many brevitous messages, you can probably figure out a fitting clarificatory context without needing any further details.
You flesh out the picture and everything falls into place.
It may be wrong, but it works.
Which is precisely the same principle that operates when dealing with Cantonese people.
IT MAY BE WRONG, BUT IT WORKS
I've always had problems with the tones. Unlike Mandarin, which has four tones, Cantonese has, depending on the dialect, between six and nine tones. Standard urban Cantonese (as spoken in Hongkong and Guangzhou) is considered to have seven or eight - one tone is usually subsumed into a very similar tone, and two of the other tones are somewhat interchangeable.
So, seven, or eight.
Which I probably couldn't recognize if they came up and bit me.
Don't ask me to pronounce just one syllable, as I'll get it wrong.
What makes it possible for me to speak Cantonese is tone sandhi coupled with context. Simply put, the permissible variation of tones within a sentence coupled with the CONTEXT makes what I just said intelligible.
My accent may be thickly twixt irritating Kwailo and East-Tsimsa thug, but the circumstances framing my yawp-like utterance throw it into focus.
When I'm lucky, I can even sound reasonably like a native. Not always, of course. But often enough.
People at the other end of the line may be fooled into thinking that they're speaking to another Chinese person.
[No, they don't immediately start talking about white people. Contrary to what paranoid monolingualists tend to think, Caucasian people are not a profound subject of gossip, sarcasm, sneer, or evil Oriental plotting. Instead, we'll talk about food, marital status, possible mutual knowledge sets or possible acquaintances. White people, as a conversational subject, do not work if one is trying to feel out relative bonds and social background. How you deal with another Chinese speaker is independent of the existence of pale people.
Sorry, but your whitey-whiteness is just not a significant factor.]
They understand me, I understand them - the framework within we speak to each other provides predictability.
Context will often make clear what I am saying, and conversely what a Cantonese person is trying to say.
Or what the heck is going on in the first place.
When something inexplicable is going on, explanations may become apparent.
THERE'S A REASON FOR THIS.....
I once witnessed a Cantonese gentleman stealing a newspaper rack. It was a very strange thing to do, and consequently a number of bystanders were baffled. They probably would have intervened or objected, but for the fact that he was red-faced and making angry choking sounds.
Even in San Francisco, where we accept our sanity-impaired fellow-Americans in a spirit of somewhat more than arms length brotherly love, actually speaking to an unbalanced individual is a daunting experience.
Risky, too.
So while a dozen people watched, no one said a thing.
After several minutes he gave up and went back to his car. And at that point, a reason for his odd behaviour became clear to me - there was a dried up old prune in the passenger seat, obviously his mom, who scowled and snapped at him.
Dejectedly he returned to the rack and resumed wrestling with it.
Judging by her appearance - antique, shrunk, glaring little eyes - mom may have been past any semblance of sanity entirely. And she wanted that rack!
No doubt there was a good use to which she could put it, and if people were stupid enough to leave so desirable an item out in the rain, unattended......
[No, I have no idea why she wanted it. Perhaps she had a very neat stack of newspapers in her living room, or needed a hutch for her sewing machine. Maybe she liked the cunning little doorway as well as the flat top. Perfect, perhaps, as a wall-stand for the microwave. It could also have been the colour: red is good luck. I can't figure out why she had a bee in her bonnet, I'm happy just knowing that it was HER bee and HER bonnet.]
The son was probably far more rational than his mom, but unable to resist her demands.
Respect your elders, it's the Chinese way. Children should always obey their parents.......
Perhaps more than ever if their parents are certifiably batsh*t - have you tried reasoning with an insane person?
Especially one who by reason of seniority and social hierarchy is always right?
This, too, is context.
When a Cantonese person is doing something inexplicable, outrageous, or illegal, there is a reason for that.
It may be wrong, but it works.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
You flesh out the picture and everything falls into place.
It may be wrong, but it works.
Which is precisely the same principle that operates when dealing with Cantonese people.
IT MAY BE WRONG, BUT IT WORKS
I've always had problems with the tones. Unlike Mandarin, which has four tones, Cantonese has, depending on the dialect, between six and nine tones. Standard urban Cantonese (as spoken in Hongkong and Guangzhou) is considered to have seven or eight - one tone is usually subsumed into a very similar tone, and two of the other tones are somewhat interchangeable.
So, seven, or eight.
Which I probably couldn't recognize if they came up and bit me.
Don't ask me to pronounce just one syllable, as I'll get it wrong.
What makes it possible for me to speak Cantonese is tone sandhi coupled with context. Simply put, the permissible variation of tones within a sentence coupled with the CONTEXT makes what I just said intelligible.
My accent may be thickly twixt irritating Kwailo and East-Tsimsa thug, but the circumstances framing my yawp-like utterance throw it into focus.
When I'm lucky, I can even sound reasonably like a native. Not always, of course. But often enough.
People at the other end of the line may be fooled into thinking that they're speaking to another Chinese person.
[No, they don't immediately start talking about white people. Contrary to what paranoid monolingualists tend to think, Caucasian people are not a profound subject of gossip, sarcasm, sneer, or evil Oriental plotting. Instead, we'll talk about food, marital status, possible mutual knowledge sets or possible acquaintances. White people, as a conversational subject, do not work if one is trying to feel out relative bonds and social background. How you deal with another Chinese speaker is independent of the existence of pale people.
Sorry, but your whitey-whiteness is just not a significant factor.]
They understand me, I understand them - the framework within we speak to each other provides predictability.
Context will often make clear what I am saying, and conversely what a Cantonese person is trying to say.
Or what the heck is going on in the first place.
When something inexplicable is going on, explanations may become apparent.
THERE'S A REASON FOR THIS.....
I once witnessed a Cantonese gentleman stealing a newspaper rack. It was a very strange thing to do, and consequently a number of bystanders were baffled. They probably would have intervened or objected, but for the fact that he was red-faced and making angry choking sounds.
Even in San Francisco, where we accept our sanity-impaired fellow-Americans in a spirit of somewhat more than arms length brotherly love, actually speaking to an unbalanced individual is a daunting experience.
Risky, too.
So while a dozen people watched, no one said a thing.
After several minutes he gave up and went back to his car. And at that point, a reason for his odd behaviour became clear to me - there was a dried up old prune in the passenger seat, obviously his mom, who scowled and snapped at him.
Dejectedly he returned to the rack and resumed wrestling with it.
Judging by her appearance - antique, shrunk, glaring little eyes - mom may have been past any semblance of sanity entirely. And she wanted that rack!
No doubt there was a good use to which she could put it, and if people were stupid enough to leave so desirable an item out in the rain, unattended......
[No, I have no idea why she wanted it. Perhaps she had a very neat stack of newspapers in her living room, or needed a hutch for her sewing machine. Maybe she liked the cunning little doorway as well as the flat top. Perfect, perhaps, as a wall-stand for the microwave. It could also have been the colour: red is good luck. I can't figure out why she had a bee in her bonnet, I'm happy just knowing that it was HER bee and HER bonnet.]
The son was probably far more rational than his mom, but unable to resist her demands.
Respect your elders, it's the Chinese way. Children should always obey their parents.......
Perhaps more than ever if their parents are certifiably batsh*t - have you tried reasoning with an insane person?
Especially one who by reason of seniority and social hierarchy is always right?
This, too, is context.
When a Cantonese person is doing something inexplicable, outrageous, or illegal, there is a reason for that.
It may be wrong, but it works.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, December 19, 2010
ROTTEN CHEESE
Over the weekend, some Dutchman cruised into my blog and saw a post from quite a while back. He was quite peeved at what he read, and reacted accordingly. As many Dutch computer users are not very internet savvy he may not have noticed that I have written other things about the Dutch.
Unpleasant things.
As suits an unpleasant bunch of people.
So for the benefit of him and his kind, should he (and they) ever come back here, I would like put the spotlight on what is probably the most useful (though certainly not the most common) clickable LABEL on this blog:
Rottekaas
[The term Rottekaas means 'rotten cheese' - the Dutch are "Kaaskoppen" ('cheese heads') according to the Belgians, and were "Jan Kaes" ('John Cheese') to the English on the Eastern Seaboard. Jan Kaes eventually became 'Yankee' - the plural-seeming 's' termination was dropped once the word was Anglified.]
In the rubrique 'Rottekaas' you will find all my bile and venom towards the nation where I once lived, her repulsive natives, and their impact on the world. Personally I think it makes for some very enjoyable reading indeed.
I have not yet created a clickable label for my love and respect for that nation, or her pleasant non-repulsive natives. That's an oversight. Oh well.
Lastly, for any Rottekaas that visit this blog and are unaware of how they may go about finding out more about this blogger and his objectionable opinions, you should know that you are NOT at the most recent set of posts unless you see http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/ in your address bar.
You probably came here as the result of a search. And if you are Dutch, the good lord only knows what kind of vile perversion you were looking for on the internet -- perhaps sex with horses or Turkish orphan rape, possibly anal-absorption of party drugs and illegal stimulants, maybe even rubber bycicle chains and adjustable wrenches used for auto-erotic purposes -- so the post that upset you quite likely will not be au courant. Just delete everything in your title bar till it looks like http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/.
There are over sixteen hundred posts. Maybe you'll find something here that you like.
Or something that will make you apoplectic.
Gam zu le tova.
Enjoy your visit, feel free to comment.
Thank you for stopping by.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Unpleasant things.
As suits an unpleasant bunch of people.
So for the benefit of him and his kind, should he (and they) ever come back here, I would like put the spotlight on what is probably the most useful (though certainly not the most common) clickable LABEL on this blog:
Rottekaas
[The term Rottekaas means 'rotten cheese' - the Dutch are "Kaaskoppen" ('cheese heads') according to the Belgians, and were "Jan Kaes" ('John Cheese') to the English on the Eastern Seaboard. Jan Kaes eventually became 'Yankee' - the plural-seeming 's' termination was dropped once the word was Anglified.]
In the rubrique 'Rottekaas' you will find all my bile and venom towards the nation where I once lived, her repulsive natives, and their impact on the world. Personally I think it makes for some very enjoyable reading indeed.
I have not yet created a clickable label for my love and respect for that nation, or her pleasant non-repulsive natives. That's an oversight. Oh well.
Lastly, for any Rottekaas that visit this blog and are unaware of how they may go about finding out more about this blogger and his objectionable opinions, you should know that you are NOT at the most recent set of posts unless you see http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/ in your address bar.
You probably came here as the result of a search. And if you are Dutch, the good lord only knows what kind of vile perversion you were looking for on the internet -- perhaps sex with horses or Turkish orphan rape, possibly anal-absorption of party drugs and illegal stimulants, maybe even rubber bycicle chains and adjustable wrenches used for auto-erotic purposes -- so the post that upset you quite likely will not be au courant. Just delete everything in your title bar till it looks like http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/.
There are over sixteen hundred posts. Maybe you'll find something here that you like.
Or something that will make you apoplectic.
Gam zu le tova.
Enjoy your visit, feel free to comment.
Thank you for stopping by.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, December 17, 2010
ALL OF ME!
It turns out that I am not the only person with my name. There's someone else out there.
Not surprising, really - unless you're named Johan Gambolputty...of Ulm you probably have at least one name double in your precise gobernia.
But the problem is that MyLife has decided that I am he.
[No, not Johan Gambolputty etcetera, what were you thinking?]
And so have a number of other internet-troll enterprises.
They send me e-mails telling me what a wonderful and exciting life he could have. Apparently tons of hot hot hot chicks are desperate to find him.
What they'd do with him after they find him is only hinted at.
It's anybody's guess.
Housebreak him?
Perhaps they'd harvest his organs.
Although, judging by some of the other e-mail, that just might not be worth the effort.
He's younger than me. And he needs more Viagra than I could possibly even think of using, too.
I have reason to suspect that he has male pattern baldness. As well as weak knees. Urinary incontinence, insomnia, halitosis, arthritis, recurring paralysis, sweaty palms, athletes foot, ringing in the ears, irritable bowel syndrome, radiculitis, neuralgia, and a limp handshake.
So no, I wouldn't want to be him.
Even with all the stunning shiksas trying to hunt him down and domesticate him.
THE THRILL OF IT ALL
Unbeknownst to MyLife and several other similar enterprises, I am fifty one years old.
Still springy. Vibrantly alive. Foxy good looks. Got all my hair. Enchantingly delightful to cuddle with. Relatively kind and gentlemanly. A stable and sane resident of San Francisco.
No tattoos. No piercings. No communicable diseases.
I know how to cook. And I've been told I have a sense of humour.
Plus I have brio!
These things must count for something.
Even without a electronic horde of comely maidens in pursuit.
But I shall not disabuse MyLife (and its many kindred companies) of their surprising estimations. There is no need for them to know the truth, it shall not set them free.
I proudly remain imperfectly domesticatable.
Besides, I'm rather enjoying finding out what a miserable goober that other me is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Not surprising, really - unless you're named Johan Gambolputty...of Ulm you probably have at least one name double in your precise gobernia.
But the problem is that MyLife has decided that I am he.
[No, not Johan Gambolputty etcetera, what were you thinking?]
And so have a number of other internet-troll enterprises.
They send me e-mails telling me what a wonderful and exciting life he could have. Apparently tons of hot hot hot chicks are desperate to find him.
What they'd do with him after they find him is only hinted at.
It's anybody's guess.
Housebreak him?
Perhaps they'd harvest his organs.
Although, judging by some of the other e-mail, that just might not be worth the effort.
He's younger than me. And he needs more Viagra than I could possibly even think of using, too.
I have reason to suspect that he has male pattern baldness. As well as weak knees. Urinary incontinence, insomnia, halitosis, arthritis, recurring paralysis, sweaty palms, athletes foot, ringing in the ears, irritable bowel syndrome, radiculitis, neuralgia, and a limp handshake.
So no, I wouldn't want to be him.
Even with all the stunning shiksas trying to hunt him down and domesticate him.
THE THRILL OF IT ALL
Unbeknownst to MyLife and several other similar enterprises, I am fifty one years old.
Still springy. Vibrantly alive. Foxy good looks. Got all my hair. Enchantingly delightful to cuddle with. Relatively kind and gentlemanly. A stable and sane resident of San Francisco.
No tattoos. No piercings. No communicable diseases.
I know how to cook. And I've been told I have a sense of humour.
Plus I have brio!
These things must count for something.
Even without a electronic horde of comely maidens in pursuit.
But I shall not disabuse MyLife (and its many kindred companies) of their surprising estimations. There is no need for them to know the truth, it shall not set them free.
I proudly remain imperfectly domesticatable.
Besides, I'm rather enjoying finding out what a miserable goober that other me is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, December 16, 2010
I SMELL YOU
Years ago I read an account by a smoker of Balkan Sobranie (no, this post is NOT about pipe tobacco!) who claimed that his children just loved coming up and burying their noses in his tweed coats, because they smelled so divinely old-fashioned.
It's a charming idea. And as a pipe-smoker myself, I just sheerly love the concept. I also have a tweed coat.
But there may be more there than meets the eye......
The office where I worked nearly a decade ago was right over a hot-lunch place run by Greeks. They roasted about three dozen chickens every day. Entering the building in the morning, your nose was welcomed with the thick sultry perfume of thyme and warm chicken fat, yes absolutely heavenly!
Why, I bet that when mr. Whatsisnameopoulos went home at night, his little kiddies would run up to bury their wee noses in his jacket, inhaling deeply of the comforting greasy aroma!
Voicing shrill graeco-squeals of pleasure and recognition!
And right about now, the crucial flaw in that Balkan Sobranie story comes into focus, doesn't it?
My coworkers just wouldn't stop bellyaching about the chicken reek.
Sure, none of them were the children of cooks, but evenso. Some smells are NOT universally appealing, much though I wish they were.
ME SMELLS
Personally, I like the smell of Balkan tobacco blends. I also enjoy the robust fragrance of multitudes of cooking chickens, as well as the whiff of hot tar, the stale-sweat perfume of freshly sharpened pencils, and the tang of certain metal alloys.
Burning mosquito coils, fountain pen and printing inks, old cardboard, extinguished candles.
Some smells just induce a deep sense of bon temps.
In that category, of course, one also finds some 'nose-memories' that are more "traditional". Your mother's eau de Cologne, the fresh washed smell of a classmate's long long hair, chalkboard erasers, an aunt who carried with her the hint of pak fa yau or jing gwat soei, a favourite teacher's lunch-time bourbon, or the faint faint whisper of lilacs in an old neighbor woman's hallway.
[Pak fa yau (白花油): white flower lotion; a mentholated oil available in small bottles in Chinatown, often used for minor ailments. It's a very old-fashioned smell. Jing gwat soei (正骨水): 'rectify bones water'; a sharp-smelling liquid rub for sore muscles and bone aches much appreciated by the kung-fu and soccer crowds, also fine for promoting circulation in tired old legs and ankles.]
Cassia. Camphor. Cedar wood.
Distant pasture.
Vermilion seal ink.
Scented stationery.
Wet grass.
Ginger.
Jasmine tea.
Slightly rotten leaves in Autumn.
Hot chocolate.
Rain.
Roasting coffee from the Caffe Trieste.
Fog on Jackson Street, between Jones and Leavenworth.
Bruised oranges and tangerines at fruit sellers before Chinese New Year.
Wild herbs on Telegraph hill.
You can probably come up with a similar list. And some of the things that olfactorily speak to you may be a little strange too.
We all have different noses.
You show me yours, I'll show you mine.
I'll even let you smell my tweed coat.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX. All correspondence will be kept in confidence. ==========================================================================
It's a charming idea. And as a pipe-smoker myself, I just sheerly love the concept. I also have a tweed coat.
But there may be more there than meets the eye......
The office where I worked nearly a decade ago was right over a hot-lunch place run by Greeks. They roasted about three dozen chickens every day. Entering the building in the morning, your nose was welcomed with the thick sultry perfume of thyme and warm chicken fat, yes absolutely heavenly!
Why, I bet that when mr. Whatsisnameopoulos went home at night, his little kiddies would run up to bury their wee noses in his jacket, inhaling deeply of the comforting greasy aroma!
Voicing shrill graeco-squeals of pleasure and recognition!
And right about now, the crucial flaw in that Balkan Sobranie story comes into focus, doesn't it?
My coworkers just wouldn't stop bellyaching about the chicken reek.
Sure, none of them were the children of cooks, but evenso. Some smells are NOT universally appealing, much though I wish they were.
ME SMELLS
Personally, I like the smell of Balkan tobacco blends. I also enjoy the robust fragrance of multitudes of cooking chickens, as well as the whiff of hot tar, the stale-sweat perfume of freshly sharpened pencils, and the tang of certain metal alloys.
Burning mosquito coils, fountain pen and printing inks, old cardboard, extinguished candles.
Some smells just induce a deep sense of bon temps.
In that category, of course, one also finds some 'nose-memories' that are more "traditional". Your mother's eau de Cologne, the fresh washed smell of a classmate's long long hair, chalkboard erasers, an aunt who carried with her the hint of pak fa yau or jing gwat soei, a favourite teacher's lunch-time bourbon, or the faint faint whisper of lilacs in an old neighbor woman's hallway.
[Pak fa yau (白花油): white flower lotion; a mentholated oil available in small bottles in Chinatown, often used for minor ailments. It's a very old-fashioned smell. Jing gwat soei (正骨水): 'rectify bones water'; a sharp-smelling liquid rub for sore muscles and bone aches much appreciated by the kung-fu and soccer crowds, also fine for promoting circulation in tired old legs and ankles.]
Cassia. Camphor. Cedar wood.
Distant pasture.
Vermilion seal ink.
Scented stationery.
Wet grass.
Ginger.
Jasmine tea.
Slightly rotten leaves in Autumn.
Hot chocolate.
Rain.
Roasting coffee from the Caffe Trieste.
Fog on Jackson Street, between Jones and Leavenworth.
Bruised oranges and tangerines at fruit sellers before Chinese New Year.
Wild herbs on Telegraph hill.
You can probably come up with a similar list. And some of the things that olfactorily speak to you may be a little strange too.
We all have different noses.
You show me yours, I'll show you mine.
I'll even let you smell my tweed coat.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX. All correspondence will be kept in confidence. ==========================================================================
STIFF UPPER LIP
Savage Kitten worries about me. She wonders if I'm ever going to be okay with this situation, whether I'm developing a drinking problem, and if my mental state is interfering with my meeting someone new.
No, no, and that third one is entirely a moot point at present.
Obviously, I'm going to have to time my crying jags and fits of emotional disturbance better. Can't have the girl finding me screeching on the kitchen floor next to a bottle of whiskey too often.
She worries about me, about her siblings, and about that man.
[That man: Him, wheelie boy, the thing in her life, it. Whatever we choose to call her current flame. The man she discovered after she dumped me. The masculine entity who will NEVER come up to the apartment she and I still share because his wheelchair doesn't do hills. Hah!]
She always worries about other people. And I wish she would do so less. Some of us can actually function. And, with effort, overcome our little problems.
It's just that there are times when we have to recline gracefully on the kitchen floor in a fetal position wailing our hearts out and warding-off bats.
Think of it as poetry. Or performance art.
I really wish she hadn't seen that. I wasn't expecting her home so early.
And really, I'm fine. Totally. Just still digesting the collapse of my emotional foundations. It takes time. Trust me. You did it for several months BEFORE you broke up with me, and you hid it very well.
I'm doing the same thing, but in reverse.
There are times when certain things hit me. There is nothing you can do about that.
Nor would I want you to. Emmes & echt.
I want you to be a happy person.
Which is also one of the reasons I would have preferred that you hadn't found me on the kitchen floor.
And that doesn't represent the kind of person I am.
I'm normally such a happy guy. La la la la la!
[[Please imagine joyous baritone singing at this point. Something in mediaeval Latin.]
There are just certain times when I have to indulge the gloomy depressive Northern European inside. He's such a pain.
I'm sure you must have had that too.
Doesn't everyone?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No, no, and that third one is entirely a moot point at present.
Obviously, I'm going to have to time my crying jags and fits of emotional disturbance better. Can't have the girl finding me screeching on the kitchen floor next to a bottle of whiskey too often.
She worries about me, about her siblings, and about that man.
[That man: Him, wheelie boy, the thing in her life, it. Whatever we choose to call her current flame. The man she discovered after she dumped me. The masculine entity who will NEVER come up to the apartment she and I still share because his wheelchair doesn't do hills. Hah!]
She always worries about other people. And I wish she would do so less. Some of us can actually function. And, with effort, overcome our little problems.
It's just that there are times when we have to recline gracefully on the kitchen floor in a fetal position wailing our hearts out and warding-off bats.
Think of it as poetry. Or performance art.
I really wish she hadn't seen that. I wasn't expecting her home so early.
And really, I'm fine. Totally. Just still digesting the collapse of my emotional foundations. It takes time. Trust me. You did it for several months BEFORE you broke up with me, and you hid it very well.
I'm doing the same thing, but in reverse.
There are times when certain things hit me. There is nothing you can do about that.
Nor would I want you to. Emmes & echt.
I want you to be a happy person.
Which is also one of the reasons I would have preferred that you hadn't found me on the kitchen floor.
And that doesn't represent the kind of person I am.
I'm normally such a happy guy. La la la la la!
[[Please imagine joyous baritone singing at this point. Something in mediaeval Latin.]
There are just certain times when I have to indulge the gloomy depressive Northern European inside. He's such a pain.
I'm sure you must have had that too.
Doesn't everyone?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
BRITTLE DISCOMFORT
There is a narrowness about life now. It seems that my ability to communicate is no longer what it was.
Or maybe it is that I am now much more aware that I cannot correctly convey what I mean, or convince others when I speak.
Savage Kitten listens, but I do not think she hears. It will probably take a long time before she understands what I have, in these past few months, tried to say. She is not prepared to grasp my points, nor realize that what she said when she broke off our relationship, and how she said it, were in effect if not intent almost impossibly wounding.
I admire her resilience.
Unfortunately, I cannot speak to anyone else either. Some things just cannot and should not be said, and I myself find it hard to speak of other matters.
What I do not clearly say requires more intensive listening than most people are capable of, and more attention than I can demand of my friends.
Really, who is avid for subjects not bright and easy?
And why should anyone even expect that of their friends?
I do not speak, I have no voice.
And I resent my own muteness.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Or maybe it is that I am now much more aware that I cannot correctly convey what I mean, or convince others when I speak.
Savage Kitten listens, but I do not think she hears. It will probably take a long time before she understands what I have, in these past few months, tried to say. She is not prepared to grasp my points, nor realize that what she said when she broke off our relationship, and how she said it, were in effect if not intent almost impossibly wounding.
I admire her resilience.
Unfortunately, I cannot speak to anyone else either. Some things just cannot and should not be said, and I myself find it hard to speak of other matters.
What I do not clearly say requires more intensive listening than most people are capable of, and more attention than I can demand of my friends.
Really, who is avid for subjects not bright and easy?
And why should anyone even expect that of their friends?
I do not speak, I have no voice.
And I resent my own muteness.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
IT FLIES!
This blog occasionally mentions music. Yes. Music that represents the eclectic taste of the blogger.
Consequently I am proud – yes, that’s it, proud – to present my latest youtube discovery.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mjatRkpSa5U&feature=channel
Rather good stuff.
Aren't you glad I didn't embed that video?
You never would've clicked on that channel if I had. Your loss.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Oh what the heck.
HOVER BACON - THE VIDEO
Deservedly a classic.
Short, sweet, and to the point. Imagine a whole new world. Go on.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Consequently I am proud – yes, that’s it, proud – to present my latest youtube discovery.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mjatRkpSa5U&feature=channel
Rather good stuff.
Aren't you glad I didn't embed that video?
You never would've clicked on that channel if I had. Your loss.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Oh what the heck.
HOVER BACON - THE VIDEO
Deservedly a classic.
Short, sweet, and to the point. Imagine a whole new world. Go on.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
DIM SUM! OR, NOTHING SAYS CHRISTMAS LIKE CHINESE FOOD!
In a previous life I must have done something very wrong. Why else would I be so surrounded by unimaginative eaters?
I realize this today because the departmental holiday lunch is coming up.
Naturally I suggested dim sum.
There have been sub-audible howls.
Several years back there were slightly more Asians in finance, and consequently my scheme would have stood a very good chance of succeeding. At present, excluding the person who had a meltdown a few months ago (now out on disability), there are five times more NON-ASIANS than Asians.
So we're probably NOT going here:
城景 CITY VIEW RESTAURANT
662 Commercial Street
(between Montgomery and Kearny).
San Francisco, CA 94111
415-398-2838
They've got some pretty darn good dim sum at City View. It's close to the office. Clean, fast, comfy, and cheerfully noisy..... Quite the best place to go. And really, nothing says Christmas spirit better than Chinese food - just ask any Jew you know!
[Nope, none of them in accounting either. Jesus, I must have been a right son-of-a-bitch in that previous life! What the hell did I do?!?]
But of course, there are some things that today's sensitive suburbanite will not touch with a ten foot pole. Let alone chopsticks.
Ha gau (蝦餃) for instance. It just looks too pretty to eat. Minced shrimp, or shrimp and pork, in a delicate pale slightly translucent bonnet, steamed........ this is the Hello Kitty of dumplings.
It is very beautiful
Suburban food does NOT look beautiful. Ever.
Siu mai (燒賣) are another example. That wrapper looks suspiciously wrinkly, and it's open on top! Good lord, you can see what 'they' filled it with! We don't care that it's high quality pork! Juicy and oh so good within the little wheat-dough pocket!
Fung jau (鳳爪) are definitely off the list. Who wants to eat chicken feet? Even if they are yummy and delicious? Those poor feetless birds!
Got any tempeh or wheat germ instead? Anybody want to make a run to Mickey D's?
Ngau yiuk kau (牛肉球) are just meat balls, you can't fool us. We've been to Italian restaurants. We're not morons!
Chu cheung fan (猪腸粉) ....? NO! Especially not after the snarky Dutchman explains what the name means ('pig intestine noodle'), because of its appealing slick pearlescent appearance! To us, no recognizable part of an animal looks good. Yes, we can tell it's actually a steamed soft rice noodle sheet around delicious fresh shrimp or beef, but we can't get that image out of our heads. We have no imagination.
Dau chup pai gwat (豆汁排骨) don't appeal to us either. They should use a sweet sticky sauce instead of a savoury, garlicky, fragrant, scrumptious black-bean sauce. And can't they debone the spareribs as is common in fast-food lunch places? We don't like bones - they remind us of Bambi. And Thumper.
Do they serve anything else?
DOT -- DOT -- DOT
The problem with woo gou (芋角 taro cake), lobak gou (蘿蔔糕 daikon cake), and ma tai gou (馬蹄糕 water chestnut cake) is that there is no meat in them. Well, not more than a smidge in the middle one..... Yes, I know we objected to everything that did have meat already. But we've been conditioned to crave meat. And that stuff looks like goo.
Surely they can wrap a steak or a hamburger in a dumpling skin?
Etcetera.
All in all it's probably a darn good thing that we'll probably choose a random Mexican place instead. Red and green salsa is ever so festive, and we can have cheese on everything!
I won't have to translate anything either. That would've put a serious crimp in my eating.
And it's dining as a group that's important. The shared experience and all that.
All of us together, we've made it through another year, huzzah and hooray.
I might lose sight of that if I enjoyed myself too much.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I realize this today because the departmental holiday lunch is coming up.
Naturally I suggested dim sum.
There have been sub-audible howls.
Several years back there were slightly more Asians in finance, and consequently my scheme would have stood a very good chance of succeeding. At present, excluding the person who had a meltdown a few months ago (now out on disability), there are five times more NON-ASIANS than Asians.
So we're probably NOT going here:
城景 CITY VIEW RESTAURANT
662 Commercial Street
(between Montgomery and Kearny).
San Francisco, CA 94111
415-398-2838
They've got some pretty darn good dim sum at City View. It's close to the office. Clean, fast, comfy, and cheerfully noisy..... Quite the best place to go. And really, nothing says Christmas spirit better than Chinese food - just ask any Jew you know!
[Nope, none of them in accounting either. Jesus, I must have been a right son-of-a-bitch in that previous life! What the hell did I do?!?]
But of course, there are some things that today's sensitive suburbanite will not touch with a ten foot pole. Let alone chopsticks.
Ha gau (蝦餃) for instance. It just looks too pretty to eat. Minced shrimp, or shrimp and pork, in a delicate pale slightly translucent bonnet, steamed........ this is the Hello Kitty of dumplings.
It is very beautiful
Suburban food does NOT look beautiful. Ever.
Siu mai (燒賣) are another example. That wrapper looks suspiciously wrinkly, and it's open on top! Good lord, you can see what 'they' filled it with! We don't care that it's high quality pork! Juicy and oh so good within the little wheat-dough pocket!
Fung jau (鳳爪) are definitely off the list. Who wants to eat chicken feet? Even if they are yummy and delicious? Those poor feetless birds!
Got any tempeh or wheat germ instead? Anybody want to make a run to Mickey D's?
Ngau yiuk kau (牛肉球) are just meat balls, you can't fool us. We've been to Italian restaurants. We're not morons!
Chu cheung fan (猪腸粉) ....? NO! Especially not after the snarky Dutchman explains what the name means ('pig intestine noodle'), because of its appealing slick pearlescent appearance! To us, no recognizable part of an animal looks good. Yes, we can tell it's actually a steamed soft rice noodle sheet around delicious fresh shrimp or beef, but we can't get that image out of our heads. We have no imagination.
Dau chup pai gwat (豆汁排骨) don't appeal to us either. They should use a sweet sticky sauce instead of a savoury, garlicky, fragrant, scrumptious black-bean sauce. And can't they debone the spareribs as is common in fast-food lunch places? We don't like bones - they remind us of Bambi. And Thumper.
Do they serve anything else?
DOT -- DOT -- DOT
The problem with woo gou (芋角 taro cake), lobak gou (蘿蔔糕 daikon cake), and ma tai gou (馬蹄糕 water chestnut cake) is that there is no meat in them. Well, not more than a smidge in the middle one..... Yes, I know we objected to everything that did have meat already. But we've been conditioned to crave meat. And that stuff looks like goo.
Surely they can wrap a steak or a hamburger in a dumpling skin?
Etcetera.
All in all it's probably a darn good thing that we'll probably choose a random Mexican place instead. Red and green salsa is ever so festive, and we can have cheese on everything!
I won't have to translate anything either. That would've put a serious crimp in my eating.
And it's dining as a group that's important. The shared experience and all that.
All of us together, we've made it through another year, huzzah and hooray.
I might lose sight of that if I enjoyed myself too much.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, December 13, 2010
CANTONESE AMERICAN GIRLS
Regular readers here already know that I have discovered my blog stats as an endless source of mild amusement. Today's stats, however, have a narrative cohesion which is rather sad.
I weep for the various stalwarts who in their hopeful ignorance stumbled in here, and did not find what they sought.
"Cantonese American Girls"
"closet chainsmoker"
"Balkan Sobranie Turkish Cigarettes Gold"
"hot bikes and chicks"
"I can see your nipples"
You see? Clearly the searchers COLLECTIVELY were looking for female Cantonese American cigarette smokers with refined tastes and pleasingly risqué personal qualities.
I can sympathize with them completely. I once knew several Cantonese American girls who smoked Balkan Sobranie cigarettes - both the gold-tipped Black Russians as well as the white tin Oriental straights ("The Balkan Sobranie Cigarettes - Made from the Finest Yenidje Tobacco - 10 CIGARETTES"), and yes, they were closet smokers.
I particularly remember strolling with them after a banquet in Los Angeles Chinatown, several yards behind their various parents. The girls took surreptitious puffs, then hid the cigarettes behind their backs. Mom and Dad should NOT see their dear daughters smoking, ever!
I was the only person openly smoking........ which, of course, added to the unpleasant smell that I as a white person surely possessed.
It should be noted that it is unlikely in the extreme that any of the three sets of parents had EVER done a comparative sniff-test of their daughters versus the Caucasian family friend and minor business associate. They might have been surprised. Pipesmokers ALWAYS smell better than cigarette smokers.
Especially closet chain-smokers.
A female Cantonese American cigarette smoker with refined tastes and pleasingly risqué personal qualities .....
One of those Cantonese American girls also had a motorbike.
I really don't know whether the bike was hot - I have no taste in such matters - but she certainly was, oh yes. Smoking. Yowza. Oooweee.
No, I never saw her nipples.
That option did not seem germaine or likely at the time.
I now regret that 'oversight' keenly.
Back then I wasn't nearly so much a dirty old man as I am now, you see.
Biker leather really adds charm to a slim girlish figure. Formfitting and shiny - it emphasizes both the curvaceousness and the aerodynamic quality of the small feminine person in question, rakish and enchanting, with one foot on the pavement, and a Balkan Sobranie cigarette twixt gloved fingers........ a smear of daemon-temptress red lipstick staining the golden tip.
But alas, none of that is on this blog. You will certainly not find cigarettes here (I disapprove of them), and neither Cantonese American girls nor nipples visit much.
I wouldn't mind if they did, honest - I like both Cantonese American girls AND nipples - but this blog really does not have much appeal to Cantonese American girls OR nipples.
It's sad.
So I'm very sorry. You are disappointed. I have failed you.
I wish you every luck in finding chainsmoking hot Cantonese American biker chicks (with nipples) somewhere else on the internet. Keep up the good search. Just remember to come back and leave me a link when you find them.
Thank you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I weep for the various stalwarts who in their hopeful ignorance stumbled in here, and did not find what they sought.
"Cantonese American Girls"
"closet chainsmoker"
"Balkan Sobranie Turkish Cigarettes Gold"
"hot bikes and chicks"
"I can see your nipples"
You see? Clearly the searchers COLLECTIVELY were looking for female Cantonese American cigarette smokers with refined tastes and pleasingly risqué personal qualities.
I can sympathize with them completely. I once knew several Cantonese American girls who smoked Balkan Sobranie cigarettes - both the gold-tipped Black Russians as well as the white tin Oriental straights ("The Balkan Sobranie Cigarettes - Made from the Finest Yenidje Tobacco - 10 CIGARETTES"), and yes, they were closet smokers.
I particularly remember strolling with them after a banquet in Los Angeles Chinatown, several yards behind their various parents. The girls took surreptitious puffs, then hid the cigarettes behind their backs. Mom and Dad should NOT see their dear daughters smoking, ever!
I was the only person openly smoking........ which, of course, added to the unpleasant smell that I as a white person surely possessed.
It should be noted that it is unlikely in the extreme that any of the three sets of parents had EVER done a comparative sniff-test of their daughters versus the Caucasian family friend and minor business associate. They might have been surprised. Pipesmokers ALWAYS smell better than cigarette smokers.
Especially closet chain-smokers.
A female Cantonese American cigarette smoker with refined tastes and pleasingly risqué personal qualities .....
One of those Cantonese American girls also had a motorbike.
I really don't know whether the bike was hot - I have no taste in such matters - but she certainly was, oh yes. Smoking. Yowza. Oooweee.
No, I never saw her nipples.
That option did not seem germaine or likely at the time.
I now regret that 'oversight' keenly.
Back then I wasn't nearly so much a dirty old man as I am now, you see.
Biker leather really adds charm to a slim girlish figure. Formfitting and shiny - it emphasizes both the curvaceousness and the aerodynamic quality of the small feminine person in question, rakish and enchanting, with one foot on the pavement, and a Balkan Sobranie cigarette twixt gloved fingers........ a smear of daemon-temptress red lipstick staining the golden tip.
But alas, none of that is on this blog. You will certainly not find cigarettes here (I disapprove of them), and neither Cantonese American girls nor nipples visit much.
I wouldn't mind if they did, honest - I like both Cantonese American girls AND nipples - but this blog really does not have much appeal to Cantonese American girls OR nipples.
It's sad.
So I'm very sorry. You are disappointed. I have failed you.
I wish you every luck in finding chainsmoking hot Cantonese American biker chicks (with nipples) somewhere else on the internet. Keep up the good search. Just remember to come back and leave me a link when you find them.
Thank you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
INDIVISIBLE PIG
Last night I had a fever - I may have caught whatever ailment Savage Kitten had on Friday - and consequently had the darndest time sleeping. The fever certainly influenced the mind, as there were two particularly vivid 'episodes'.
Twixt wake and sleep, strange things erupt.
I do some of my "best" thinking when not fully conscious.
Falling asleep: the impossible camaraderie of numbers
All prime numbers beyond 3 are separated from the next and preceding prime number by a multiple of two. 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, etcetera.
Even numbers are wet, prime numbers are dry.
If you take a number of two or more digits and reverse the first and last digits (for instance: changing 29 to 92, 103 to 301, 8007 to 7008 and so forth), the difference between the first number and the second will always be divisible by nine.
Subtract one from a square number and the resultant number is divisible by the number immediately preceding and following the root, and is in fact those two numbers multiplied by each other - for instance, 25 minus 1 is 24, which is divisible by 4 and 6; 144 minus 1 is 143 which is 11 times 13, etcetera.
Waking up: documentary of a waterplant that never was
Close-up video of a boggy stretch of rivers-edge on screen, while an educated sounding voice speaks over: "Now observe these pale plump segments among the dark leaves and tendrils - it is the symbiote "Waterspek", which provides nutrients that allow the "Vark Op Zee" to thrive among the reeds above the waterline, whereas at and below water level both plants - Vark Op Zee and Waterspek - exist entirely separately. In the past, it was thought that Waterspek, Vark Op Zee above the water, and Vark Op Zee below the water were in fact THREE different plants. Waterspek was known from Linnaeus, but Vark Op Zee was thought to have come in bilge water sometime after the war - it wasn't till the sixties that this invasive weed was fully studied. The collaboration of these two completely different species is a remarkable example of recent natural adaptation, truly remarkable"
Hmmmph! What's truly remarkable is that there are NO such plants, but there should be.
Vark Op Zee means 'pig at sea'. Waterspek, naturally, translates as 'water bacon'.
Why is there green treif in my dreams?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Twixt wake and sleep, strange things erupt.
I do some of my "best" thinking when not fully conscious.
Falling asleep: the impossible camaraderie of numbers
All prime numbers beyond 3 are separated from the next and preceding prime number by a multiple of two. 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, etcetera.
Even numbers are wet, prime numbers are dry.
If you take a number of two or more digits and reverse the first and last digits (for instance: changing 29 to 92, 103 to 301, 8007 to 7008 and so forth), the difference between the first number and the second will always be divisible by nine.
Subtract one from a square number and the resultant number is divisible by the number immediately preceding and following the root, and is in fact those two numbers multiplied by each other - for instance, 25 minus 1 is 24, which is divisible by 4 and 6; 144 minus 1 is 143 which is 11 times 13, etcetera.
Waking up: documentary of a waterplant that never was
Close-up video of a boggy stretch of rivers-edge on screen, while an educated sounding voice speaks over: "Now observe these pale plump segments among the dark leaves and tendrils - it is the symbiote "Waterspek", which provides nutrients that allow the "Vark Op Zee" to thrive among the reeds above the waterline, whereas at and below water level both plants - Vark Op Zee and Waterspek - exist entirely separately. In the past, it was thought that Waterspek, Vark Op Zee above the water, and Vark Op Zee below the water were in fact THREE different plants. Waterspek was known from Linnaeus, but Vark Op Zee was thought to have come in bilge water sometime after the war - it wasn't till the sixties that this invasive weed was fully studied. The collaboration of these two completely different species is a remarkable example of recent natural adaptation, truly remarkable"
Hmmmph! What's truly remarkable is that there are NO such plants, but there should be.
Vark Op Zee means 'pig at sea'. Waterspek, naturally, translates as 'water bacon'.
Why is there green treif in my dreams?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, December 12, 2010
THE DINNER TABLE ISSUE
Bit of a quandary. As you have noticed, food is one of my major obsessions.
I like to cook, I like to eat. But in the past few months, I have hardly done any cooking. There doesn’t seem to be much point it any more, not without someone to eat with.
It’s the sharing of a meal that makes it worthwhile. Good company – for instance, a charming young lady at the same table – makes food taste so much better.
The other night I made myself a bowl of noodles. Somehow I got distracted, and the next morning I discovered it on the table.
I had only had a few bites. It had been good, but I didn’t have much of an appetite the previous evening.
Food by oneself is mere rote eating, it has no significance.
Consider this: it’s six a clock on a Sunday evening, and I’m sitting at my desk at work, wondering what to eat. Not that I’m hungry, but if I’m going to have a drink later, it would be best not to do that on an empty stomach. The list of eateries near the bar where I shall have my cocktail is fairly extensive – three Chinese, two Thai, two Pizza, a Mexican restaurant, two Vietnamese restaurants, two Mediterranean restaurants, three Sushi places, two steak houses, a seafood restaurant, a very good French place ……… none of them seem particularly appealing, and most places serve portions that are far too large for just one person.
Well, one person who doesn’t enjoy his food as much anymore.
Now, if I had someone to eat with, I would jump at any one of those restaurants. Even forego the drink.
[Seriously, someone out there! If you’ve got sparkling eyes and a sunny disposition, how about it? Dinner and a movie, and I’ll get you home at a reasonable hour. I’ll even dress for the occasion! And I promise I won’t try to grope you. Though if you’re up for some totally innocent hand-holding I would be delighted!]
Tonight I’ll probably just head right on over to cocktails. Food without company has near-zero appeal.
There will be folks I know at the bar. Likeable people. Gregarious.
It’s better than just sitting alone at home (even though I am catching up on my reading, big time).
As long as there aren’t any couples sucking each other’s tonsils out, petting each other, or audibly smooching, it will be just the ticket.
One or two hours in a public place, with a cocktail or two. Yeah, I’ll be fine.
A glass of warm milk and a cookie before going to bed, later.
This sucks. But it’s really not that bad.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I like to cook, I like to eat. But in the past few months, I have hardly done any cooking. There doesn’t seem to be much point it any more, not without someone to eat with.
It’s the sharing of a meal that makes it worthwhile. Good company – for instance, a charming young lady at the same table – makes food taste so much better.
The other night I made myself a bowl of noodles. Somehow I got distracted, and the next morning I discovered it on the table.
I had only had a few bites. It had been good, but I didn’t have much of an appetite the previous evening.
Food by oneself is mere rote eating, it has no significance.
Consider this: it’s six a clock on a Sunday evening, and I’m sitting at my desk at work, wondering what to eat. Not that I’m hungry, but if I’m going to have a drink later, it would be best not to do that on an empty stomach. The list of eateries near the bar where I shall have my cocktail is fairly extensive – three Chinese, two Thai, two Pizza, a Mexican restaurant, two Vietnamese restaurants, two Mediterranean restaurants, three Sushi places, two steak houses, a seafood restaurant, a very good French place ……… none of them seem particularly appealing, and most places serve portions that are far too large for just one person.
Well, one person who doesn’t enjoy his food as much anymore.
Now, if I had someone to eat with, I would jump at any one of those restaurants. Even forego the drink.
[Seriously, someone out there! If you’ve got sparkling eyes and a sunny disposition, how about it? Dinner and a movie, and I’ll get you home at a reasonable hour. I’ll even dress for the occasion! And I promise I won’t try to grope you. Though if you’re up for some totally innocent hand-holding I would be delighted!]
Tonight I’ll probably just head right on over to cocktails. Food without company has near-zero appeal.
There will be folks I know at the bar. Likeable people. Gregarious.
It’s better than just sitting alone at home (even though I am catching up on my reading, big time).
As long as there aren’t any couples sucking each other’s tonsils out, petting each other, or audibly smooching, it will be just the ticket.
One or two hours in a public place, with a cocktail or two. Yeah, I’ll be fine.
A glass of warm milk and a cookie before going to bed, later.
This sucks. But it’s really not that bad.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, December 10, 2010
CASTIGATING THE SMALL FELINE
Today I have 'anger issues' towards my ex-girlfriend.
No, it's not because she dumped me after more than two decades and we're just roommates now. It's not that. I've digested it, and am working it out of my system.
It's what happened this morning.
Savage Kitten provided TWO prime invitations to a foul mood.
THE SOMEWHAT LESSER ISSUE
She kindly left me a pair of lovely tamales with sauce to eat yesterday. They were delicious.
It is now abundantly clear that I should have eaten only one of them at most, and it would have probably been far better if I had also had less of the sauce.
It's not what you think. Montezuma and his fairies did NOT visit last night, I experienced no brutalizing of my colon by the chilies.
And there was NO panicked rush to the crapper at Casa Toad this morning.
Far otherwise.
Gout.
Gout.
Gout.
My right foot is trying to self-destruct at present. I can hardly walk, and I feel the enlarged joint of the big toe weeping and wailing and gnashing its teeth. It does not like me, nay far otherwise, the swollen poxy bastard hates me with a passion, and if it breaks free, it will wreak horrid vengeance upon the world.
It is possessed by a daemon, and it is filled with thoughts of violence.
Pain up to the knee.
Technicolour dreams during the night. Villainous things, tamales are. So good, yet so very cruel.
Ambulatorily, my progress this morning has been twitchy and slow. With overmuch therapeutic use of the 'F' word, not always sotto voce.
I startled two drug-addicts on my way to work - probably thought I had shot a bad dose or something. They hopped out of my way.
Alacritous bitches!
I am suffering intensely.
THE DISTINCTLY GREATER ISSUE
Stubborn woman! When you are running a fever and look like you're about to keel over, you really should stay home. Go on, call your boss and tell her you're sick. Yes, I know you feel it would be wussy and irresponsible to miss work. Sometimes you just have to do so. Listen to me! You look like death warmed over. Stop saying that you don't do enough, you'll be all right, there is still much to be done, and that you need to take care of people. This is all immaterial, you need to be good to yourself. The best thing you can do for the people you love is to take care of Savage Kitten.
Why don't you listen? Do you really think it's constructive to argue with me for twenty minutes about how you'll be okay and I shouldn't worry? Those muffled weak sounds from beyond the bathroom door are not at all convincing.
You are on the point of collapse. Stay home. Dammit!
Once she is set on something it is impossible to change her mind.
I'm certain she dragged herself in to the office after I left.
If her coworkers have any brains, they'll send her home.
She should be in bed right now, getting some rest.
Stubborn woman!
AFTERWORD
Just got a call from my own phone number. Would you care to guess who is home again right now, sounding weak and fragile?
Hmmmm? Hmmmmmmmmmmmm?!?
I'll bring her some hot rice porridge from C'town when I come home this evening.
And I'll make sure she's tucked in warmly.
Her Teddy Bear will give her the necessary stern lecture, once she's well again.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No, it's not because she dumped me after more than two decades and we're just roommates now. It's not that. I've digested it, and am working it out of my system.
It's what happened this morning.
Savage Kitten provided TWO prime invitations to a foul mood.
THE SOMEWHAT LESSER ISSUE
She kindly left me a pair of lovely tamales with sauce to eat yesterday. They were delicious.
It is now abundantly clear that I should have eaten only one of them at most, and it would have probably been far better if I had also had less of the sauce.
It's not what you think. Montezuma and his fairies did NOT visit last night, I experienced no brutalizing of my colon by the chilies.
And there was NO panicked rush to the crapper at Casa Toad this morning.
Far otherwise.
Gout.
Gout.
Gout.
My right foot is trying to self-destruct at present. I can hardly walk, and I feel the enlarged joint of the big toe weeping and wailing and gnashing its teeth. It does not like me, nay far otherwise, the swollen poxy bastard hates me with a passion, and if it breaks free, it will wreak horrid vengeance upon the world.
It is possessed by a daemon, and it is filled with thoughts of violence.
Pain up to the knee.
Technicolour dreams during the night. Villainous things, tamales are. So good, yet so very cruel.
Ambulatorily, my progress this morning has been twitchy and slow. With overmuch therapeutic use of the 'F' word, not always sotto voce.
I startled two drug-addicts on my way to work - probably thought I had shot a bad dose or something. They hopped out of my way.
Alacritous bitches!
I am suffering intensely.
THE DISTINCTLY GREATER ISSUE
Stubborn woman! When you are running a fever and look like you're about to keel over, you really should stay home. Go on, call your boss and tell her you're sick. Yes, I know you feel it would be wussy and irresponsible to miss work. Sometimes you just have to do so. Listen to me! You look like death warmed over. Stop saying that you don't do enough, you'll be all right, there is still much to be done, and that you need to take care of people. This is all immaterial, you need to be good to yourself. The best thing you can do for the people you love is to take care of Savage Kitten.
Why don't you listen? Do you really think it's constructive to argue with me for twenty minutes about how you'll be okay and I shouldn't worry? Those muffled weak sounds from beyond the bathroom door are not at all convincing.
You are on the point of collapse. Stay home. Dammit!
Once she is set on something it is impossible to change her mind.
I'm certain she dragged herself in to the office after I left.
If her coworkers have any brains, they'll send her home.
She should be in bed right now, getting some rest.
Stubborn woman!
AFTERWORD
Just got a call from my own phone number. Would you care to guess who is home again right now, sounding weak and fragile?
Hmmmm? Hmmmmmmmmmmmm?!?
I'll bring her some hot rice porridge from C'town when I come home this evening.
And I'll make sure she's tucked in warmly.
Her Teddy Bear will give her the necessary stern lecture, once she's well again.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, December 09, 2010
GOOD VIBES - WHISKEY REQUIRED
As some of you know, one of my few secret vices is Karaoke.
That is to say, I occasionally have a whiskey and water while listening to other people trying to sing.
I myself do not sing, for the simple reason that I do not wish to drive people away. My musical ability is the audible equivalent of bad body odour, you see. Everyone steps out for a smoke when I croon - even the nonsmokers and timorous virgins.
You don't want me to melodiate.
Take my word for it.
You know what's good for you.
WAILING FOR PEACE
Most Karaoke practitioners are people of doubtful taste anyhow.
Can't sing, shouldn't sing.
They should've listened to their mommies. And darn it all, they still 'sing'!
What else can you say about a dozen gen X suburbanites doing the Oakland Booty song?
['The Oakland Booty song': "I like big butts and I don't know why!" by Sir Mixalot. It really doesn’t work for Anglos from San Leandro. Trust me.]
Some 'artists' are more than passing strange.
And some pick songs that perfectly express their wonderful personality.
It's a profoundly beautiful thing when that happens.
The other night a wan young man wearing skin-tight clothing sat at the bar swearing at his companion till it was his turn to sing.
Please imagine what he looked like while you read the following lyrics:
"We were at a party,
His ear lobe fell in the deep;
Someone reached in and grabbed it,
It was a rock lobster!
We were at the beach,
Everybody had matching towels;
Somebody went under a dock,
And there they saw a rock;
It wasn't a rock....
It was a rock lobster!
Motion in the ocean,
His air hose broke;
Lots of trouble,
Lots of bubble,
He was in a jam,
Stuck in a giant clam!
Down, down!
Underneath the waves,
Mermaids waving.
Waving to mermen,
Waving sea fans,
Sea horses sailing;
Dolphins wailing!
Red snappers snapping,
Clam shells clapping;
Muscles flexing,
Flippers flipping!
Down, down!
Let's rock!
Boys in bikinis,
Girls in surfboards;
Everybody is rocking,
Everybody is frugging!
Twisting round the fire,
Having fun;
Baking potatoes,
Baking in the sun!
Put on your nose guard,
Put on the lifeguard,
Pass the tanning butter.
Here comes a stingray,
There goes a manta ray,
In walked a jelly fish.
There goes a dog fish,
Chased by a catfish,
In flew a sea robin.
Watch out for that piranha,
There goes a narwhale,
Here comes a bikini whale. "
['Rock Lobster', by The B-52's.]
Dude, that was exquisite! It was you!
Really, it was. No one else could have so well embodied the new cultural paradigm inherent in those words. You are the Rock Lobster!
AFTERTHOUGHT
Actually, the very best audio-visual at the Karaoke bar ever! is Miss Joyce doing "sweat, baby, sweat, baby, sex is a Texas drought; me and you do the kind of stuff that only Prince would sing about".
It's got bounce. It's got rhythm. It's Miss Joyce to da max.
A religious experience.
"You and me baby ain't nothing but mammals,
So let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel!"
[From 'The Bad Touch', by The Bloodhound Gang.]
"Love - the kind you clean up with a mop and bucket,
Like the lost catacombs of Egypt only God knows where we stuck it;
Hieroglyphics? Let me be Pacific I wanna be down in your South Seas,
But I got this notion that the motion of your ocean means 'Small Craft Advisory'! "
This is wonderful. Don't any of you poseurs DARE to go out to smoke while she's belting that out.
It's real, baby. It's why you took the long trek from San Leandro to the city tonight.
And yes, Miss Joyce is only 'miss' part of the time.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
That is to say, I occasionally have a whiskey and water while listening to other people trying to sing.
I myself do not sing, for the simple reason that I do not wish to drive people away. My musical ability is the audible equivalent of bad body odour, you see. Everyone steps out for a smoke when I croon - even the nonsmokers and timorous virgins.
You don't want me to melodiate.
Take my word for it.
You know what's good for you.
WAILING FOR PEACE
Most Karaoke practitioners are people of doubtful taste anyhow.
Can't sing, shouldn't sing.
They should've listened to their mommies. And darn it all, they still 'sing'!
What else can you say about a dozen gen X suburbanites doing the Oakland Booty song?
['The Oakland Booty song': "I like big butts and I don't know why!" by Sir Mixalot. It really doesn’t work for Anglos from San Leandro. Trust me.]
Some 'artists' are more than passing strange.
And some pick songs that perfectly express their wonderful personality.
It's a profoundly beautiful thing when that happens.
The other night a wan young man wearing skin-tight clothing sat at the bar swearing at his companion till it was his turn to sing.
Please imagine what he looked like while you read the following lyrics:
"We were at a party,
His ear lobe fell in the deep;
Someone reached in and grabbed it,
It was a rock lobster!
We were at the beach,
Everybody had matching towels;
Somebody went under a dock,
And there they saw a rock;
It wasn't a rock....
It was a rock lobster!
Motion in the ocean,
His air hose broke;
Lots of trouble,
Lots of bubble,
He was in a jam,
Stuck in a giant clam!
Down, down!
Underneath the waves,
Mermaids waving.
Waving to mermen,
Waving sea fans,
Sea horses sailing;
Dolphins wailing!
Red snappers snapping,
Clam shells clapping;
Muscles flexing,
Flippers flipping!
Down, down!
Let's rock!
Boys in bikinis,
Girls in surfboards;
Everybody is rocking,
Everybody is frugging!
Twisting round the fire,
Having fun;
Baking potatoes,
Baking in the sun!
Put on your nose guard,
Put on the lifeguard,
Pass the tanning butter.
Here comes a stingray,
There goes a manta ray,
In walked a jelly fish.
There goes a dog fish,
Chased by a catfish,
In flew a sea robin.
Watch out for that piranha,
There goes a narwhale,
Here comes a bikini whale. "
['Rock Lobster', by The B-52's.]
Dude, that was exquisite! It was you!
Really, it was. No one else could have so well embodied the new cultural paradigm inherent in those words. You are the Rock Lobster!
AFTERTHOUGHT
Actually, the very best audio-visual at the Karaoke bar ever! is Miss Joyce doing "sweat, baby, sweat, baby, sex is a Texas drought; me and you do the kind of stuff that only Prince would sing about".
It's got bounce. It's got rhythm. It's Miss Joyce to da max.
A religious experience.
"You and me baby ain't nothing but mammals,
So let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel!"
[From 'The Bad Touch', by The Bloodhound Gang.]
"Love - the kind you clean up with a mop and bucket,
Like the lost catacombs of Egypt only God knows where we stuck it;
Hieroglyphics? Let me be Pacific I wanna be down in your South Seas,
But I got this notion that the motion of your ocean means 'Small Craft Advisory'! "
This is wonderful. Don't any of you poseurs DARE to go out to smoke while she's belting that out.
It's real, baby. It's why you took the long trek from San Leandro to the city tonight.
And yes, Miss Joyce is only 'miss' part of the time.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
INCENSE-LIKE CURLS OF SMOKE
Apparently my fellow smokers are scared of a little Autumn rain. I was the only member of the minyan to make it to the accustomed spot today, pipe happily trailing fumes under my umbrella. Normally there would be several of us there. Nope.
The cigar smokers are all wussy. Maybe they fear they’ll melt.
Truth be told, I would rather have been inside also. But one cannot smoke indoors during the working day.
In addition to being inside, I would have liked it to be teatime too.
Around five o’clock.
Nice warm living room.
Perhaps in a comfy chair. Corner bay-window. Overlooking a be-treed intersection on Nob Hill, near San Kwong or U-Lee.
Pipeful of Cornell & Diehl’s Yale Mixture (blend no. 531).
In sweet company – I’m thinking someone with dark soft hair, at a nearby table, head bent over her textbooks………
Heck, a man can dream, eh?
FINE PORCELAIN
While I’m at it, the tea is Golden Tips, Autumn, Fragrant Darjeeling.
Her hair is long - past her shoulders.
There are interesting pockets of shadow where the golden lamp light does not reach.
Instead of all that, I got wet.
My toes feel a little soggy at present.
Teatime is a while hence, but I will still be at the office.
When I get home, the apartment will be empty. My roommate is having dinner with an old friend.
I’ll fix myself a pot of tea (Golden Tips, Autumn, Fragrant Darjeeling), and hang out in the kitchen by the open window, smoking and dreaming.
I’ve got nothing more strenuous planned for this evening than drying my toes.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The cigar smokers are all wussy. Maybe they fear they’ll melt.
Truth be told, I would rather have been inside also. But one cannot smoke indoors during the working day.
In addition to being inside, I would have liked it to be teatime too.
Around five o’clock.
Nice warm living room.
Perhaps in a comfy chair. Corner bay-window. Overlooking a be-treed intersection on Nob Hill, near San Kwong or U-Lee.
Pipeful of Cornell & Diehl’s Yale Mixture (blend no. 531).
In sweet company – I’m thinking someone with dark soft hair, at a nearby table, head bent over her textbooks………
Heck, a man can dream, eh?
FINE PORCELAIN
While I’m at it, the tea is Golden Tips, Autumn, Fragrant Darjeeling.
Her hair is long - past her shoulders.
There are interesting pockets of shadow where the golden lamp light does not reach.
Instead of all that, I got wet.
My toes feel a little soggy at present.
Teatime is a while hence, but I will still be at the office.
When I get home, the apartment will be empty. My roommate is having dinner with an old friend.
I’ll fix myself a pot of tea (Golden Tips, Autumn, Fragrant Darjeeling), and hang out in the kitchen by the open window, smoking and dreaming.
I’ve got nothing more strenuous planned for this evening than drying my toes.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
DUTCH JEWS, LEAVE!
I'm using my comments underneath a post on Dovbear’s blog as the basis for this piece.
BOLKENSTEIN
Prominent Dutch politician Frits Bolkestein sparked an uproar in the Netherlands by saying practicing Jews had "no future here, and should emigrate to the US or Israel"
Dov, naturally, found that reprehensible. That a politician would say that Jews should leave 'for their own good' should normally be considered ipso facto anti-Semitic.
Normally the government might actually gave a damn, and the police could actually do their job.
But this is the Netherlands we're talking about.
DUTCH JEWS
‘QUOTE: "joden die als zodanig herkenbaar zijn, zoals orthodoxe joden", aldus Bolkestein - "Voor hen zie ik geen toekomst hier vanwege het antisemitisme onder vooral Marokkaanse Nederlanders, die in aantal blijven toenemen."
[Translation: "Jews who are recognizable as such, like Orthodox Jews", according to Bolkenstein - "For them I do not see any future here, due to anti-Semitism, especially among Moroccan Dutch, who keep increasing in number".]
QUOTE: Volgens de oud-eurocommissaris kunnen ze daarom hun kinderen maar beter aanraden om te emigreren naar Amerika of Israël. Hij heeft weinig vertrouwen in de huidige plannen om het antisemitisme te bestrijden, zoals het inzetten van ‘lokjoden’ – een voorstel van PvdA-Kamerlid Ahmed Marcouch.
[Translation: According to the ex-Eurocommissioner it is better that they advise their children to emigrate to the United States or Israel. He has little confidence in current plans to combat anti-Semitism, such utilizing 'decoy Jews' - a proposal by Labour Party congressman Ahmed Marcouch. ]
Plainly put, Fritz Bolkenstein has no confidence in either the Dutch government OR the Dutch population to put an end to anti-Semitism, which he blames on the non-assimilation of Moroccans and Turks (sly jab at the Labour Party, who are widely held responsible for the 'gedoog beleid' policies that led to this situation), and he frankly advises Jews that the Netherlands is neither safe, nor tolerant.
He is a pessimist. As are a number of others.
Do I think Jews have a future in the Netherlands? Hell no. Fudge no.
Nor would I advise anyone to walk around wearing a kippah in even the Netherlands' most Jewish city - Amsterdam - because it might mean their life. Like Bolkenstein, I would suggest that all Dutch Jews emigrate.
Unlike Bolkenstein, I would further suggest that they emigrate PRIMARILY to San Francisco, but that's because I am a self-serving opportunist.
I could use more Dutch-speakers here with whom I can agree.
The current bunch are mostly pricks.
DUTCH MUSLIMS
There are about 800 thousand Muslim Dutch, primarily of North-African and Turkish ancestry. Many of them were born in the Netherlands. They aren’t immigrants by any standard, though they are not considered ‘native’ (“autochtoon”). They dominate certain neighborhoods in most of the inner cities.
Coincidentally, that would also be where most Dutch Jews reside. One might possibly say that then the problem would be easily resolved by moving Jews out to the provinces....... except that that is where Stormfront Netherlands resides.
Unlike Bolkenstein and many others, I do not blame the Moroccan and Turkish Dutch. Their venomous anti-Semitism could not thrive if the Dutch did not tolerate it. The Dutch cannot claim that it throve outside of their sight, it was plainly visible for an entire generation.
It was allowed to flourish by Dutch politicians and Dutch society, and it was conveniently overlooked, because it seemed to serve as an admirable outlet, and as an occasionally useful political voice when Dutch society had a fit over what the Israelis were doing to those poor, poor Palestinians.
Claiming that it's only the Muslim-Dutch is a cop-out. It's a nice try at plausible deniability, but it doesn't hold water.
Again, I do not blame the Muslim Dutch - their anti-Semitism is a thoroughly Netherlandish product.
I blame the Dutch.
By the way, calling Bolkenstein, as a former VVD parliamentarian, a rightist, is, in the American context, more than absurd. The VVD are liberals, and only right-wing by Dutch standards.
By US Republican standards, the agenda of the VVD is damn’ near filthy communist.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BOLKENSTEIN
Prominent Dutch politician Frits Bolkestein sparked an uproar in the Netherlands by saying practicing Jews had "no future here, and should emigrate to the US or Israel"
Dov, naturally, found that reprehensible. That a politician would say that Jews should leave 'for their own good' should normally be considered ipso facto anti-Semitic.
Normally the government might actually gave a damn, and the police could actually do their job.
But this is the Netherlands we're talking about.
DUTCH JEWS
‘QUOTE: "joden die als zodanig herkenbaar zijn, zoals orthodoxe joden", aldus Bolkestein - "Voor hen zie ik geen toekomst hier vanwege het antisemitisme onder vooral Marokkaanse Nederlanders, die in aantal blijven toenemen."
[Translation: "Jews who are recognizable as such, like Orthodox Jews", according to Bolkenstein - "For them I do not see any future here, due to anti-Semitism, especially among Moroccan Dutch, who keep increasing in number".]
QUOTE: Volgens de oud-eurocommissaris kunnen ze daarom hun kinderen maar beter aanraden om te emigreren naar Amerika of Israël. Hij heeft weinig vertrouwen in de huidige plannen om het antisemitisme te bestrijden, zoals het inzetten van ‘lokjoden’ – een voorstel van PvdA-Kamerlid Ahmed Marcouch.
[Translation: According to the ex-Eurocommissioner it is better that they advise their children to emigrate to the United States or Israel. He has little confidence in current plans to combat anti-Semitism, such utilizing 'decoy Jews' - a proposal by Labour Party congressman Ahmed Marcouch. ]
Plainly put, Fritz Bolkenstein has no confidence in either the Dutch government OR the Dutch population to put an end to anti-Semitism, which he blames on the non-assimilation of Moroccans and Turks (sly jab at the Labour Party, who are widely held responsible for the 'gedoog beleid' policies that led to this situation), and he frankly advises Jews that the Netherlands is neither safe, nor tolerant.
He is a pessimist. As are a number of others.
Do I think Jews have a future in the Netherlands? Hell no. Fudge no.
Nor would I advise anyone to walk around wearing a kippah in even the Netherlands' most Jewish city - Amsterdam - because it might mean their life. Like Bolkenstein, I would suggest that all Dutch Jews emigrate.
Unlike Bolkenstein, I would further suggest that they emigrate PRIMARILY to San Francisco, but that's because I am a self-serving opportunist.
I could use more Dutch-speakers here with whom I can agree.
The current bunch are mostly pricks.
DUTCH MUSLIMS
There are about 800 thousand Muslim Dutch, primarily of North-African and Turkish ancestry. Many of them were born in the Netherlands. They aren’t immigrants by any standard, though they are not considered ‘native’ (“autochtoon”). They dominate certain neighborhoods in most of the inner cities.
Coincidentally, that would also be where most Dutch Jews reside. One might possibly say that then the problem would be easily resolved by moving Jews out to the provinces....... except that that is where Stormfront Netherlands resides.
Unlike Bolkenstein and many others, I do not blame the Moroccan and Turkish Dutch. Their venomous anti-Semitism could not thrive if the Dutch did not tolerate it. The Dutch cannot claim that it throve outside of their sight, it was plainly visible for an entire generation.
It was allowed to flourish by Dutch politicians and Dutch society, and it was conveniently overlooked, because it seemed to serve as an admirable outlet, and as an occasionally useful political voice when Dutch society had a fit over what the Israelis were doing to those poor, poor Palestinians.
Claiming that it's only the Muslim-Dutch is a cop-out. It's a nice try at plausible deniability, but it doesn't hold water.
Again, I do not blame the Muslim Dutch - their anti-Semitism is a thoroughly Netherlandish product.
I blame the Dutch.
By the way, calling Bolkenstein, as a former VVD parliamentarian, a rightist, is, in the American context, more than absurd. The VVD are liberals, and only right-wing by Dutch standards.
By US Republican standards, the agenda of the VVD is damn’ near filthy communist.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
YOUR POSITIVE REGARD
Sometimes the feed-back here is amazing.
Not necessarily strange (although some of it definitely is), but truly extraordinary. That the people who regularly cruise into this blog will form a mental image of me, which may or may not be accurate, should come as no surprise. That, despite the occasional oddity, they can sometimes be totally spot-on, however is ..... well, rewarding.
Smile-inducing. Nice.
SPOT ON!
Long-time reader and friend of blog Ari left an advisory comment under my recent post "TOAD-MAN WITH PIPE SEEKS TOLERANT YOUNG LADY":
[In that piece I described a recent match-making misadventure that Boruch Hashem did NOT result in any actual meeting. Nor an arrest. Some people mean well. Yes, that's it. ]
[QUOTE]
"Hmmm. Ok, how about this:
'Me: pipe-puffing tobacco enthusiast, mercurial, middle aged, borderline misanthropic, foodie, news junkie, student of history, Judeophile, Sinophile, autodidact, bookworm, lover of all things frilly and silky worn by females of the species, hater of most things Dutch, practitioner of elaborate morning rituals and ablutions, detester of slick marketing types, zest for life yet very cynical, derisive of Berkeley leftists and Sara Palin.
You: petite, whip-smart, feisty, saucy, appreciator of gastronomic delights, admirer of men with life experience, blogger, long-time denizen of the East or West Coast, news junkie, knows when to babble and knows when to keep quiet. Is able to put up with a lot. And I do mean a lot.
Let's meet and hang out for ten, twenty, years or more.' "
[Posted by Ari to At the back of the hill at 11:32 AM]
[END QUOTE ]
ABLE TO PUT UP WITH A LOT
That really says it all. It's the perfect description. Dealing with The Toad takes patience. The way he's word-picture-painted the ideal other person is truly remarkable.
Yes, this is precisely what the doctor ordered.
"Petite, whip-smart, feisty, saucy, appreciator of gastronomic delights, admirer of men with life experience, blogger, long-time denizen of the East or West Coast, news junkie..........."
Just one minor quibbling little detail............
Well, two, actually.
1. One coast only. Not "long-time denizen of the East or West Coast". Local. West. SF. Please.
2. More than one language. Not necessarily two, but more than one. Double Dutch is not a language, fyi.
There. That's perfect. Now let's see how long it will take before anyone notices.
. . . . . . . . . . .
PS: Ari also wrote: "Pilfer from it shamelessly. Now, get out there and circulate. "
Circulate? Good heavens, man, I'm positively twirling!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Not necessarily strange (although some of it definitely is), but truly extraordinary. That the people who regularly cruise into this blog will form a mental image of me, which may or may not be accurate, should come as no surprise. That, despite the occasional oddity, they can sometimes be totally spot-on, however is ..... well, rewarding.
Smile-inducing. Nice.
SPOT ON!
Long-time reader and friend of blog Ari left an advisory comment under my recent post "TOAD-MAN WITH PIPE SEEKS TOLERANT YOUNG LADY":
[In that piece I described a recent match-making misadventure that Boruch Hashem did NOT result in any actual meeting. Nor an arrest. Some people mean well. Yes, that's it. ]
[QUOTE]
"Hmmm. Ok, how about this:
'Me: pipe-puffing tobacco enthusiast, mercurial, middle aged, borderline misanthropic, foodie, news junkie, student of history, Judeophile, Sinophile, autodidact, bookworm, lover of all things frilly and silky worn by females of the species, hater of most things Dutch, practitioner of elaborate morning rituals and ablutions, detester of slick marketing types, zest for life yet very cynical, derisive of Berkeley leftists and Sara Palin.
You: petite, whip-smart, feisty, saucy, appreciator of gastronomic delights, admirer of men with life experience, blogger, long-time denizen of the East or West Coast, news junkie, knows when to babble and knows when to keep quiet. Is able to put up with a lot. And I do mean a lot.
Let's meet and hang out for ten, twenty, years or more.' "
[Posted by Ari to At the back of the hill at 11:32 AM]
[END QUOTE ]
ABLE TO PUT UP WITH A LOT
That really says it all. It's the perfect description. Dealing with The Toad takes patience. The way he's word-picture-painted the ideal other person is truly remarkable.
Yes, this is precisely what the doctor ordered.
"Petite, whip-smart, feisty, saucy, appreciator of gastronomic delights, admirer of men with life experience, blogger, long-time denizen of the East or West Coast, news junkie..........."
Just one minor quibbling little detail............
Well, two, actually.
1. One coast only. Not "long-time denizen of the East or West Coast". Local. West. SF. Please.
2. More than one language. Not necessarily two, but more than one. Double Dutch is not a language, fyi.
There. That's perfect. Now let's see how long it will take before anyone notices.
. . . . . . . . . . .
PS: Ari also wrote: "Pilfer from it shamelessly. Now, get out there and circulate. "
Circulate? Good heavens, man, I'm positively twirling!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, December 06, 2010
TOAD-MAN WITH PIPE SEEKS TOLERANT YOUNG LADY
One of my well-meaning but clueless friends who does not read this blog, upon hearing that I am single again and "probably desperate for a lay" (his insane and intemperate interpretation!), suggested in the strongest possible terms that a woman he knew was perfect, just perfect, and I'd really enjoy meeting her. She's so interesting! Why, we we're ideal for each other!
"And she's only forty six!"
Okay...............................
E-MAIL EXCHANGE
Apparently, among many other 'interesting things' (ten pages worth) she takes "long walks on the beach with her several dogs, and likes nothing better than spending lots of time with her nine grandkids".
Holy Chrysler!
Nine grandkids?!?
What happened, lady, the entire tribe of Judah tromped through your pelvis?
It never even came to a meeting.
I have no plans to date the 'Dog Woman Ancestress Of The Fecund Loins'.
That's one tribal epic that ain't gonna get written.
But it got me thinking. What kind of personal ad would appeal to EXACTLY the right type?
Self-depreciation?
"Non-athletic grumpus wants weak-minded female....."
How about startlingly blunt?
"Crusty old fart seeks like-minded opposite number....."
Disarmingly honest?
"Middle-aged person of merely average height....."
A note of forewarning, perhaps?
"Decent looking enough, slight reek of tobacco....."
An appeal to oddness?
"Man with a reverie-inducing smell of cigars....."
Frankness?
"Let's go out together and sneer at the same things....."
Bald-faced lies! Those always work!
"Sensitive mature Adonis....."
Okay, maybe a minor fudging of details.
"Strong silent type with square chin....."
I'm still working on it.
It's extremely doubtful that anything will come of it, seeing as lonely heart adverts are dreadfully old-fashioned (as well as being amusingly desperate), but it might make an interesting literary endeavor.
In any case, it's better than being bullied by amateur matchmakers.
I tried to explain to my friend that other than the demographic bomb and the dogs, I had NO objection to grandmothers, really, even if they do have food hang-ups (quote: "Chinese food gives me gas"), political ideas straight out of the dark-ages (quote: "Sarah Palin is right about..."), cultural ignorance to a fare-thee-well (quote: "I don't read books by Russians!"), abysmally bad taste (quote: "my collection of puppy figurines..."), old-time religion (quote: "if you're right by Jesus..."), and horrid personal habits (quote: "I paint my fingernails every Thursday...").
Truly.
I could probably put up with almost any of those, even in combination.
Provided I was at least twenty miles removed from the woman at all times.
I'm assuming that she's a woman. Although she could be a troll. Or an Orc.
There's NO part of her habitus that accords with mine. None.
No, I cannot see myself sitting down to a cup of tea, a pipe, and a good book in her company. Nor heading to a new restaurant for some enjoyable food discoveries in early evening, just the two of us. Or walking over the top of Nob Hill on a crisp night, arm in arm.
I can, however, see myself moving at great speed to get away from her pack of dogs and rabid grandkids.
Even with that head-start of twenty miles I mentioned.
Don't you DARE spring her on me unannounced!
She lives in Fremont, you say?
Boruch Hashem.
I am SO avoiding Fremont.
But thanks a lot for "thinking" of me.
Dude.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"And she's only forty six!"
Okay...............................
E-MAIL EXCHANGE
Apparently, among many other 'interesting things' (ten pages worth) she takes "long walks on the beach with her several dogs, and likes nothing better than spending lots of time with her nine grandkids".
Holy Chrysler!
Nine grandkids?!?
What happened, lady, the entire tribe of Judah tromped through your pelvis?
It never even came to a meeting.
I have no plans to date the 'Dog Woman Ancestress Of The Fecund Loins'.
That's one tribal epic that ain't gonna get written.
But it got me thinking. What kind of personal ad would appeal to EXACTLY the right type?
Self-depreciation?
"Non-athletic grumpus wants weak-minded female....."
How about startlingly blunt?
"Crusty old fart seeks like-minded opposite number....."
Disarmingly honest?
"Middle-aged person of merely average height....."
A note of forewarning, perhaps?
"Decent looking enough, slight reek of tobacco....."
An appeal to oddness?
"Man with a reverie-inducing smell of cigars....."
Frankness?
"Let's go out together and sneer at the same things....."
Bald-faced lies! Those always work!
"Sensitive mature Adonis....."
Okay, maybe a minor fudging of details.
"Strong silent type with square chin....."
I'm still working on it.
It's extremely doubtful that anything will come of it, seeing as lonely heart adverts are dreadfully old-fashioned (as well as being amusingly desperate), but it might make an interesting literary endeavor.
In any case, it's better than being bullied by amateur matchmakers.
I tried to explain to my friend that other than the demographic bomb and the dogs, I had NO objection to grandmothers, really, even if they do have food hang-ups (quote: "Chinese food gives me gas"), political ideas straight out of the dark-ages (quote: "Sarah Palin is right about..."), cultural ignorance to a fare-thee-well (quote: "I don't read books by Russians!"), abysmally bad taste (quote: "my collection of puppy figurines..."), old-time religion (quote: "if you're right by Jesus..."), and horrid personal habits (quote: "I paint my fingernails every Thursday...").
Truly.
I could probably put up with almost any of those, even in combination.
Provided I was at least twenty miles removed from the woman at all times.
I'm assuming that she's a woman. Although she could be a troll. Or an Orc.
There's NO part of her habitus that accords with mine. None.
No, I cannot see myself sitting down to a cup of tea, a pipe, and a good book in her company. Nor heading to a new restaurant for some enjoyable food discoveries in early evening, just the two of us. Or walking over the top of Nob Hill on a crisp night, arm in arm.
I can, however, see myself moving at great speed to get away from her pack of dogs and rabid grandkids.
Even with that head-start of twenty miles I mentioned.
Don't you DARE spring her on me unannounced!
She lives in Fremont, you say?
Boruch Hashem.
I am SO avoiding Fremont.
But thanks a lot for "thinking" of me.
Dude.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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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,...
