I've got nothing against the Irish, some of my best friends have the misfortune of hailing from that primitive boggy wasteland, bless their depraved souls.
They are the salt of the earth.
And their misfortunate ancestry fills me with profound sympathy.
As does their chronic athletes foot, crotch rot, insanity, and nail fungus.
Most of which, possibly all four, being caused by the atrocious climate and lack of familiarity with modern sanitary practices.
As I see it, being Irish is kind of like being the disease-carrying parasites in the soggy groin of the armpit of the world.
Poor bastards.
Condolence, boys, condolence.
I actually like the Irish.
It's their American kinfolk I cannot stand.
The first year I was back in the United States, some sixth generation pollock with but the barest connection to the old sodomity took offense at my accent on Saint Patrick's Day and blackened my eye.
The next year, one of his distant slope-browed relatives blackened the other one, on the same day and for the same reason.
The third year I had to break a jaw preventively.
Saint Patrick's day is not a holiday, it's an excuse for drunks, bums, degenerates, and maladjusted heathen.
I happen to speak decent English. Which, on Saint Patrick's day, irritates the daylights out of illiterates and many other Celts, sod them. The Irish-Irish at least can take a joke, fercrapsakes they were born in Ireland. Staying there proves that they have a sense of humour.
It makes up for the many ailments to their unclean private parts caused by skin-friction in a soggy environment.
And is as good a reason for self-medication with John Jameson's fine product as any.
The American-Irish, on the other hand, have no sense of humour whatsoever. They moved out.
They have NO justification for John Jameson, nor any justification for damn-well anything at all.
Which explains why they act so British.
In absolute dis-celebration of the damned holiday, I shall drink no Irish Whisky till after the weekend. Life is too short to pass any time in the company of once-a-year paddiwhacks.
I shall absteem from sampling even a drop of Jameson's.
And avoid all bars where the O'Morons gather.
Bah humbug.
Instead, Scotch. How can you NOT like a nation that DOESN'T march down Market Street playing lousy music, puking, and wearing silly green felt hats? They're so well-behaved in daylight, too!
A remarkable fine bunch of people, despite their hairy gams.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers (including Irishmen) may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
Unless you say something remarkably stupid, Paddy.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
GARLIC CHIVE DUMPLINGS
Years ago on late evenings, I would head over to the DPD (一品香) on the corner of Jackson and Kearny, or the Taiwan Restaurant (臺灣飯店) at Broadway and Columbus for some water dumplings.
Water dumplings (水餃) are not the same as what Cantonese people call by that name. The northern version is a pocket of savoury filling inside a handmade skin, either boiled till done or steamed. It is the origin of potstickers, because if there any left-over they can be panfried the next day.
What the Cantonese call 水餃 are usually wonton, somewhat larger than normal, with a shrimp filling.
Both are fine products if done properly. But if you had a yen for shwei jiau, you will be incredibly disappointed when soei gaau show up. That isn't what you wanted to eat at all!
What is wrong with the world?!?
Oh woe! Profound despair!
Neither the DPD nor the Taiwan Restaurant still exist.
The corner where the DPD stood is now a Thai Restaurant, and the location of the Taiwan Restaurant has gone through several incarnations in the last decade - Mexican grill, Arab pizza joint, bankrupt business, and pizza joint again. Plus something else that lasted so short a while in between pizza joint and bankrupt (or bankrupt and pizza joint) that I cannot remember what it was.
There is almost nowhere in the old neighborhood where one can get real Northern Dumplings.
白加士街
[PARKES STREET, KOWLOON]
MTR station at Jordan Road (佐敦道) and Nathan Road (彌敦道).
At Jordan Road turn left.
Parkes Street (白加士街) is on the right, runs three blocks from Jordan to Saigon (西貢).
CLEARLY VISIBLE LANDMARK: MacDonald's on corner of Jordan Road and Parkes Street. This is NOT why you are here. If all you wanted was a snack, the Wonton King (雲吞王) is in the middle of the first block of Parkes Street, on the left hand side.
It isn't especially good, but it's better than Mc-flaccid beef muck on sponge.
發仔記點心小廚 just up the block, same side, is marginally better.
However, further up Parkes street, on the other side of the intersection with Nanking Street (Namkeng kai: 南京街) well before Ningpo Street (寧波街), is an oasis.
There is a Seven-Eleven on the corner of Nanking Street, in case you are lost.
What you need is five doors up from the corner.
It's right next to 鹵鵝皇 (the Brined Goose Emperor). Kam Seng Jook Mien is on the other side. There's a Szechuan Restaurant right opposite (麻辣王).
唯珍上海麵家 WAI-TSAN SEUNGHOI MIEN KAA
125 Parkes Street, Ground Floor
Telephone: 2770 4763
Roughly translated, the name is "rare delicacy Shanghai noodle restaurant".
Except your focus is not so much noodles as the pan-fried pork cutlets - either with noodles or rice, or on top of soup - and most especially the garlic chives pork dumplings.
Everything here is 好新鮮 (ho san sien) - very very fresh!
豬扒 (chyu paa) pork cutlet.
韭菜豬肉水餃 (gau choi chyu yiuk soei gaau) garlic chives pork dumplings.
The dumplings are real Shui Jiao - water dumplings, northern type. Handmade skins enfolding a mixture of chopped pork and vegetable. Both the dumplings and the cutlets should be eaten with lots of hot sauce. Real hot sauce (mashed chili paste), bright red and juicy, rather than the typical brown-fried chili flakes in darkened oil common at many other dumpling shops.
真唔錯, 真好味! 食得爆呀!
It's a relatively small place, only one table for a large group, plus some 2 and 4 person seatings.
If you're rushed, just grab a flaky meat roll (餡餅) or a sweet bean turnover (豆沙餅).
Parkes Street is rather narrow, with just enough space for parking and two lanes in between the buildings. The Public Light Bus Service (公共小型巴士) red tops go up Parkes Street, the green tops go down Jordan Road.
昃臣街
[JACKSON STREET, SAN FRANCISCO]
A few weeks ago, on a rainy weekend evening, I left the office after dark.
On Jackson Street (昃臣街) between Kearny (乾尼街) and Grant Avenue (都板街) I found a new place. I had seen the owners preparing to open up for business quite a while back, but hadn't paid much attention at the time, other than to wonder how wise it was to open up their kind of business in a neighborhood populated mostly by Toishanese and HK immigrants on tight budgets.
上海飯店 BUND SHANGHAI RESTAURANT
640 Jackson Street
San Francisco, CA 94133
415-982-0618
Scoping out the menu in the window, what caught my eye was one key term: 韭菜豬肉水餃.
Yes! Garlic chives dumplings! Exult!
Had a full plate. Delicious. Tender delicate toothsome skins, perfect filling.
Glopped 'em with real hot sauce.
While I ate I listened in on the 老闆娘 telling her waiters which tables needed extra attention, make sure those kids don't hurt themselves, more peanuts, and will someone please answer the phone I don't speak English!
It is traditional to eat dumplings during the new year.
But I'm not waiting twelve months to eat here again.
This place is worth several second visits.
There's finally a place for water dumplings near home.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Water dumplings (水餃) are not the same as what Cantonese people call by that name. The northern version is a pocket of savoury filling inside a handmade skin, either boiled till done or steamed. It is the origin of potstickers, because if there any left-over they can be panfried the next day.
What the Cantonese call 水餃 are usually wonton, somewhat larger than normal, with a shrimp filling.
Both are fine products if done properly. But if you had a yen for shwei jiau, you will be incredibly disappointed when soei gaau show up. That isn't what you wanted to eat at all!
What is wrong with the world?!?
Oh woe! Profound despair!
Neither the DPD nor the Taiwan Restaurant still exist.
The corner where the DPD stood is now a Thai Restaurant, and the location of the Taiwan Restaurant has gone through several incarnations in the last decade - Mexican grill, Arab pizza joint, bankrupt business, and pizza joint again. Plus something else that lasted so short a while in between pizza joint and bankrupt (or bankrupt and pizza joint) that I cannot remember what it was.
There is almost nowhere in the old neighborhood where one can get real Northern Dumplings.
白加士街
[PARKES STREET, KOWLOON]
MTR station at Jordan Road (佐敦道) and Nathan Road (彌敦道).
At Jordan Road turn left.
Parkes Street (白加士街) is on the right, runs three blocks from Jordan to Saigon (西貢).
CLEARLY VISIBLE LANDMARK: MacDonald's on corner of Jordan Road and Parkes Street. This is NOT why you are here. If all you wanted was a snack, the Wonton King (雲吞王) is in the middle of the first block of Parkes Street, on the left hand side.
It isn't especially good, but it's better than Mc-flaccid beef muck on sponge.
發仔記點心小廚 just up the block, same side, is marginally better.
However, further up Parkes street, on the other side of the intersection with Nanking Street (Namkeng kai: 南京街) well before Ningpo Street (寧波街), is an oasis.
There is a Seven-Eleven on the corner of Nanking Street, in case you are lost.
What you need is five doors up from the corner.
It's right next to 鹵鵝皇 (the Brined Goose Emperor). Kam Seng Jook Mien is on the other side. There's a Szechuan Restaurant right opposite (麻辣王).
唯珍上海麵家 WAI-TSAN SEUNGHOI MIEN KAA
125 Parkes Street, Ground Floor
Telephone: 2770 4763
Roughly translated, the name is "rare delicacy Shanghai noodle restaurant".
Except your focus is not so much noodles as the pan-fried pork cutlets - either with noodles or rice, or on top of soup - and most especially the garlic chives pork dumplings.
Everything here is 好新鮮 (ho san sien) - very very fresh!
豬扒 (chyu paa) pork cutlet.
韭菜豬肉水餃 (gau choi chyu yiuk soei gaau) garlic chives pork dumplings.
The dumplings are real Shui Jiao - water dumplings, northern type. Handmade skins enfolding a mixture of chopped pork and vegetable. Both the dumplings and the cutlets should be eaten with lots of hot sauce. Real hot sauce (mashed chili paste), bright red and juicy, rather than the typical brown-fried chili flakes in darkened oil common at many other dumpling shops.
真唔錯, 真好味! 食得爆呀!
It's a relatively small place, only one table for a large group, plus some 2 and 4 person seatings.
If you're rushed, just grab a flaky meat roll (餡餅) or a sweet bean turnover (豆沙餅).
Parkes Street is rather narrow, with just enough space for parking and two lanes in between the buildings. The Public Light Bus Service (公共小型巴士) red tops go up Parkes Street, the green tops go down Jordan Road.
昃臣街
[JACKSON STREET, SAN FRANCISCO]
A few weeks ago, on a rainy weekend evening, I left the office after dark.
On Jackson Street (昃臣街) between Kearny (乾尼街) and Grant Avenue (都板街) I found a new place. I had seen the owners preparing to open up for business quite a while back, but hadn't paid much attention at the time, other than to wonder how wise it was to open up their kind of business in a neighborhood populated mostly by Toishanese and HK immigrants on tight budgets.
上海飯店 BUND SHANGHAI RESTAURANT
640 Jackson Street
San Francisco, CA 94133
415-982-0618
Scoping out the menu in the window, what caught my eye was one key term: 韭菜豬肉水餃.
Yes! Garlic chives dumplings! Exult!
Had a full plate. Delicious. Tender delicate toothsome skins, perfect filling.
Glopped 'em with real hot sauce.
While I ate I listened in on the 老闆娘 telling her waiters which tables needed extra attention, make sure those kids don't hurt themselves, more peanuts, and will someone please answer the phone I don't speak English!
It is traditional to eat dumplings during the new year.
But I'm not waiting twelve months to eat here again.
This place is worth several second visits.
There's finally a place for water dumplings near home.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
VIGIL FOR THE VICTIMS OF THE ITAMAR TERRORIST ATTACK
Time Wednesday, March 16 • 8:30pm - 9:30pm
________________________________________
Location Fountain at Bancroft and College
________________________________________
Created By Tikvah: Students for Israel, Brian Maissy
________________________________________
More Info
We will be holding a vigil on Wednesday night in memory of the five members of the Fogel family who were massacred in their beds last Shabbat in their home in Itamar.
(http://www.ynetnews.com/articles/0,7340,L-4041237,00.html)
The brutal murder of the mother, father, and three young children shocked the nation, sparked celebration in Gaza, and prompted Prime Minister Netanyahu to declaim the Palestinian Authority's incitement to violence and glorification of martyrdom which is perpetuating the conflict.
We will meet at the fountain at Bancroft and College at 8:00pm promptly, and walk together to our location on campus. Candles will be provided. There will be an opportunity for everyone to voice their thoughts, so you are welcome to prepare something to say if you are so inclined.
Co-sponsored with the Chabad Jewish Student Group
________________________________________
Location Fountain at Bancroft and College
________________________________________
Created By Tikvah: Students for Israel, Brian Maissy
________________________________________
More Info
We will be holding a vigil on Wednesday night in memory of the five members of the Fogel family who were massacred in their beds last Shabbat in their home in Itamar.
(http://www.ynetnews.com/articles/0,7340,L-4041237,00.html)
The brutal murder of the mother, father, and three young children shocked the nation, sparked celebration in Gaza, and prompted Prime Minister Netanyahu to declaim the Palestinian Authority's incitement to violence and glorification of martyrdom which is perpetuating the conflict.
We will meet at the fountain at Bancroft and College at 8:00pm promptly, and walk together to our location on campus. Candles will be provided. There will be an opportunity for everyone to voice their thoughts, so you are welcome to prepare something to say if you are so inclined.
Co-sponsored with the Chabad Jewish Student Group
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
LITERACY ON THE RUN
As you can guess I have a life-long fondness for bookstores.
Not surprisingly, I can name several.
First four, in order:
Boekhandel Priem
Blackwells
De Slegte
Atheneum Boekhandel
These four are significant, because without them I would scarcely be literate. They are the first bookstores that I ever knew.
Priem was the local bookstore in Valkenswaard where I spent several hours in the stacks nearly every day for many years, reading whatever I could lay my hands upon.
Blackwells was the establishment in England from whence came regular packages with everything new that my parents wished to read, or thought that my brother and I should have a chance to discover.
De Slegte is a used-book store that has branches in many Dutch towns, including Eindhoven - four floors of fascinating tomes, multiple languages, dust, and students.
Atheneum is the grand seigneur that dominates the Spui Plein in Amsterdam. After the weekly bookmarket on Fridays, you would enter the Atheneum to purchase new what could not be bought second hand, then retire to the Café Luxembourg to peruse your purchases and smoke a cigar.
When I lived in Berkeley, I could be found almost every day at Moe's, Cody's, or Shakespeare's. Retire to the Café Mediterraneum to hold forth, spew, and pontificate.
Once I moved to SF, it was City Lights, Columbus Books, the Zhong Mei Shu Dian, or Ng's and Louie Brothers. Plus every second-hand bookstore between here and hell, provided it was accessible by bus or train.
After which, head over to Ping Yuen Coffee Shop or the Eastern Bakery to gloat.
ANNO 2011
This past weekend I thought to acquire a second copy of a particular book, so that I could keep it at my office. It's a descriptive grammar of a foreign language.
So I went downtown, to Union Square.
Borders Bookstore.
I forgot one crucial detail.
Borders imploded. They're reorganizing. Going bye bye. Damn. Bankrupt. Place is a madhouse at present, thirty to fifty percent off everything. Much of everything is already gone.
Including the foreign language section. It used to be nearly five thousand volumes (10 x 8 x 50 plus) about many languages, now it's down to 20 books maximum. If even that.
Twenty books of the world's least popular languages.
I do NOT want to learn Abkhazian or Zyngo!
This means that the San Francisco shopping district has become as illiterate as a suburban shopping mall near trailer parks in the interior of the country.
There are now NO bookstores in the Union Square area.
There used to be over fifty bookstores in this quadrant of the city.
Including the remaining Chinese bookstores, now there are a dozen shops left.
Two of which sell mostly pulp fiction from the bestseller lists and self-help.
San Francisco isn't in the top ten most literate cities in America anymore.
We kinda suck.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Not surprisingly, I can name several.
First four, in order:
Boekhandel Priem
Blackwells
De Slegte
Atheneum Boekhandel
These four are significant, because without them I would scarcely be literate. They are the first bookstores that I ever knew.
Priem was the local bookstore in Valkenswaard where I spent several hours in the stacks nearly every day for many years, reading whatever I could lay my hands upon.
Blackwells was the establishment in England from whence came regular packages with everything new that my parents wished to read, or thought that my brother and I should have a chance to discover.
De Slegte is a used-book store that has branches in many Dutch towns, including Eindhoven - four floors of fascinating tomes, multiple languages, dust, and students.
Atheneum is the grand seigneur that dominates the Spui Plein in Amsterdam. After the weekly bookmarket on Fridays, you would enter the Atheneum to purchase new what could not be bought second hand, then retire to the Café Luxembourg to peruse your purchases and smoke a cigar.
When I lived in Berkeley, I could be found almost every day at Moe's, Cody's, or Shakespeare's. Retire to the Café Mediterraneum to hold forth, spew, and pontificate.
Once I moved to SF, it was City Lights, Columbus Books, the Zhong Mei Shu Dian, or Ng's and Louie Brothers. Plus every second-hand bookstore between here and hell, provided it was accessible by bus or train.
After which, head over to Ping Yuen Coffee Shop or the Eastern Bakery to gloat.
ANNO 2011
This past weekend I thought to acquire a second copy of a particular book, so that I could keep it at my office. It's a descriptive grammar of a foreign language.
So I went downtown, to Union Square.
Borders Bookstore.
I forgot one crucial detail.
Borders imploded. They're reorganizing. Going bye bye. Damn. Bankrupt. Place is a madhouse at present, thirty to fifty percent off everything. Much of everything is already gone.
Including the foreign language section. It used to be nearly five thousand volumes (10 x 8 x 50 plus) about many languages, now it's down to 20 books maximum. If even that.
Twenty books of the world's least popular languages.
I do NOT want to learn Abkhazian or Zyngo!
This means that the San Francisco shopping district has become as illiterate as a suburban shopping mall near trailer parks in the interior of the country.
There are now NO bookstores in the Union Square area.
There used to be over fifty bookstores in this quadrant of the city.
Including the remaining Chinese bookstores, now there are a dozen shops left.
Two of which sell mostly pulp fiction from the bestseller lists and self-help.
San Francisco isn't in the top ten most literate cities in America anymore.
We kinda suck.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FLYING SOLO ISN'T ALL IT'S CRACKED UP TO BE
There are times when I no longer feel like I'm part of the human race. The other night I passed some of the restaurants on Polk Street, and everyone of them was filled with happy twenty-somethings of the Caucasian persuasion.
At such times the single diner is not welcome.
There's something so nice about going to a restaurant with someone else. The choices are greater, and you don't have to bring a book to keep from looking desperate. And you have company.
I could always try talking to myself........
Chances are then that the restaurant would be anxious to never see my face again.
Coffee shops outside of Chinatown are another dangerous place.
If you're by yourself there's an excellent chance that someone with a unique set of social skills will try to strike up a conversation. And you just know that no good can come of that. Either you've got a new best friend for life, or someone will remember your face and glare spitefully at you every time you come in. Accost you on the street and accusatorily continue a discussion that exists only in their mind, for which once they found you they discovered a face. Scream at people on the bus that you have cooties. Or unerringly locate you at a public event and get you both kicked out.
Obviously I don't go to many coffee shops.
At bakeries inside C'town there are enough normal people that I can just dawdle over my cup and observe. And if some elderly gentleman gestures at an empty seat near me, it's pretty much a guarantee that he merely wants to sit down, rather than tell me about the space aliens and free masons.
I don't think there actually are Cantonese who worry about space aliens and free masons.
Maybe they're just very good at hiding it.
Elsewhere? A crap-shoot.
On Polk Street or in North Beach I could always pretend that the empty place is occupied by my invisible friend. That would keep some people away. Unfortunately, others would then insist on joining the party and being introduced.
There's nothing quite so creepy as someone asserting that your invisible friend is the most charming, intelligent, and downright ATTRACTIVE person they have EVER met.
Especially when your invisible friend stubbornly refuses their attentions.
Really, I like humans. You might not think so after this rant, but I do.
Honestly.
I just wish I knew more of them.
I'm getting tired of being by myself.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
At such times the single diner is not welcome.
There's something so nice about going to a restaurant with someone else. The choices are greater, and you don't have to bring a book to keep from looking desperate. And you have company.
I could always try talking to myself........
Chances are then that the restaurant would be anxious to never see my face again.
Coffee shops outside of Chinatown are another dangerous place.
If you're by yourself there's an excellent chance that someone with a unique set of social skills will try to strike up a conversation. And you just know that no good can come of that. Either you've got a new best friend for life, or someone will remember your face and glare spitefully at you every time you come in. Accost you on the street and accusatorily continue a discussion that exists only in their mind, for which once they found you they discovered a face. Scream at people on the bus that you have cooties. Or unerringly locate you at a public event and get you both kicked out.
Obviously I don't go to many coffee shops.
At bakeries inside C'town there are enough normal people that I can just dawdle over my cup and observe. And if some elderly gentleman gestures at an empty seat near me, it's pretty much a guarantee that he merely wants to sit down, rather than tell me about the space aliens and free masons.
I don't think there actually are Cantonese who worry about space aliens and free masons.
Maybe they're just very good at hiding it.
Elsewhere? A crap-shoot.
On Polk Street or in North Beach I could always pretend that the empty place is occupied by my invisible friend. That would keep some people away. Unfortunately, others would then insist on joining the party and being introduced.
There's nothing quite so creepy as someone asserting that your invisible friend is the most charming, intelligent, and downright ATTRACTIVE person they have EVER met.
Especially when your invisible friend stubbornly refuses their attentions.
Really, I like humans. You might not think so after this rant, but I do.
Honestly.
I just wish I knew more of them.
I'm getting tired of being by myself.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 14, 2011
RETURNING TO FAMILIAR STREETS
Saturday I spent nearly the entire day at the office by myself, simply reading and puttering around. The office is where I spend a lot of time now, since Savage Kitten and I broke up. It's not that I hate being in the same apartment as her - far from it - but there is far less at the office to spark regret and moodiness.
There is a lot there to distract me and keep me busy, and I like the quietness.
It's a coping mechanism. It works.
At around six o'clock, not having eating anything all day, I headed over to Chinatown for a snack.
A waitress at a coffee shop remembered me from twenty five years ago, and at a different coffee shop.
平園咖啡店
The Ping Yuen Coffee Shop was a longtime fixture on Jackson Street (昃臣街), about three blocks from where I lived at the time. In those days I always dropped by a coffee shop or bakery after work, to read the newspapers while having a bite.
Ping Yuen was one of the regular places, and they stayed open later. Which meant that I could spend more time reading.
[Newspapers: The San Francisco Chronicle, The Examiner, 星島日報, 國際日報, and of course the 金山時報. That last was strictly local, one of the oldest newspapers on the West-Coast. ]
After coffee I would often go down the street to the Great Star Theatre (大明星戲院) to catch a movie.
去戲院睇電影
The Great Star was where I first saw Chow Yun-fat (周潤發) in The Story of Woo Viet ('Wu-yuet dik gusi': 胡越的故事), The Recruiter ('Liptau': 獵頭) and A Better Tomorrow ('Yinghong pun sei': 英雄本色).
I can't really remember him in the first two movies, but in A better Tomorrow, he made one hell of an impression.
Since then I saw Underground Love ('Dei-haa tsing': 地下情) at the same theatre, as well as City on Fire ('Long fu fong wan': 龍虎風雲). That last one mentioned may very well be the best Chow Yun-fat movie ever made. However it ain't something you want your kids to watch, at least not until they've seen an actual murder or two. City on Fire, together with Tragic Hero ('Yinghong how hon': 英雄好漢), thoroughly epitomize both the Hong Kong crime movie genre as well as the new style of Cantonese cinema that developed during the eighties.
For a quieter and far more all-family acceptable introduction to Chow Yun-fat's work, you might like An Autumn's Tale ('Chau tien dik chongwa': 秋天的童話), in which he plays opposite the stellar Cherie Chung ('Chong Chu-hong': 鍾楚紅) in a gentle romantic story of two people who are rather mismatched.
A lighthearted comedy in which he stars is The Eighth Happiness ('Baat sing bo hey': 八星報喜), and especially charming in its own way is the goofy Diary of a Big Man ('Taai cheung-fu yat-kei': 大丈夫日記), in which he tries to break up with one woman, who takes it as a proposal and accepts, then tries to impart the ghastly news to his other girlfriend, only to end up hitched to both women, neither of whom know about the existence of each other for most of the tale. It's a light-hearted romp about a man who has gotten himself into a bit of a pickle, and is too gentle to be honest with either woman.
I've seen most of the movies Chow Yun-fat has ever made, but I've never seen the television series that first made him famous: The Bund ('Seunghoi tan': 上海灘).
The theme song from that series is, however, indelibly imprinted on my memory ..... 浪奔, 浪流,萬里滔滔江水永不休..... "waves rush, waves flow, for ten thousand miles the river's torrent does not cease", here well sung by Andy Lau ('Lau Tak-wa': 劉德華), who has also been in numerous great movies.
The series-name is sometimes given as 'Shanghai Shoals' - a much better translation of the title.
[Note: theme song to The Bund (上海灘) originally sung by Frances Yip ('Yip Lai-yi': 葉麗儀). Original sound: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OM8Y0_OnFgg. Concert performance: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4uBkWv8L0eg Note also that the modernized character version of her name looks virtually meaningless: 叶丽仪. Seriously, can anyone read that?!? Like Chow Yun-fat and Cherrie Chung, Frances Yip is Hakka.]
[Additional note, March 29, 2013: The link embedded under「浪奔, 浪流」had disappeared. In searching for a new link, I ran across this, which is delightfully strange. Hatsune Miku (a Japanese computer voice program) singing the theme song. Not bad.]
Those were good days. The Taai Ming Sing Hey Yuen closed sometime in the early nineties, the Ping Yuen Coffee shop ceased operations at roughly the same time. Jackson Street has changed a bit.
鄉音無改鬢毛衰
It was quite a pleasant surprise running into someone I knew from that long ago. Extremely flattering that she still remembered me, and could actually recognize me.
My hair has greyed a bit since then, but my voice is still the same.
And I'm still, apparently, one heck of a 靚仔.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There is a lot there to distract me and keep me busy, and I like the quietness.
It's a coping mechanism. It works.
At around six o'clock, not having eating anything all day, I headed over to Chinatown for a snack.
A waitress at a coffee shop remembered me from twenty five years ago, and at a different coffee shop.
平園咖啡店
The Ping Yuen Coffee Shop was a longtime fixture on Jackson Street (昃臣街), about three blocks from where I lived at the time. In those days I always dropped by a coffee shop or bakery after work, to read the newspapers while having a bite.
Ping Yuen was one of the regular places, and they stayed open later. Which meant that I could spend more time reading.
[Newspapers: The San Francisco Chronicle, The Examiner, 星島日報, 國際日報, and of course the 金山時報. That last was strictly local, one of the oldest newspapers on the West-Coast. ]
After coffee I would often go down the street to the Great Star Theatre (大明星戲院) to catch a movie.
去戲院睇電影
The Great Star was where I first saw Chow Yun-fat (周潤發) in The Story of Woo Viet ('Wu-yuet dik gusi': 胡越的故事), The Recruiter ('Liptau': 獵頭) and A Better Tomorrow ('Yinghong pun sei': 英雄本色).
I can't really remember him in the first two movies, but in A better Tomorrow, he made one hell of an impression.
Since then I saw Underground Love ('Dei-haa tsing': 地下情) at the same theatre, as well as City on Fire ('Long fu fong wan': 龍虎風雲). That last one mentioned may very well be the best Chow Yun-fat movie ever made. However it ain't something you want your kids to watch, at least not until they've seen an actual murder or two. City on Fire, together with Tragic Hero ('Yinghong how hon': 英雄好漢), thoroughly epitomize both the Hong Kong crime movie genre as well as the new style of Cantonese cinema that developed during the eighties.
For a quieter and far more all-family acceptable introduction to Chow Yun-fat's work, you might like An Autumn's Tale ('Chau tien dik chongwa': 秋天的童話), in which he plays opposite the stellar Cherie Chung ('Chong Chu-hong': 鍾楚紅) in a gentle romantic story of two people who are rather mismatched.
A lighthearted comedy in which he stars is The Eighth Happiness ('Baat sing bo hey': 八星報喜), and especially charming in its own way is the goofy Diary of a Big Man ('Taai cheung-fu yat-kei': 大丈夫日記), in which he tries to break up with one woman, who takes it as a proposal and accepts, then tries to impart the ghastly news to his other girlfriend, only to end up hitched to both women, neither of whom know about the existence of each other for most of the tale. It's a light-hearted romp about a man who has gotten himself into a bit of a pickle, and is too gentle to be honest with either woman.
I've seen most of the movies Chow Yun-fat has ever made, but I've never seen the television series that first made him famous: The Bund ('Seunghoi tan': 上海灘).
The theme song from that series is, however, indelibly imprinted on my memory ..... 浪奔, 浪流,萬里滔滔江水永不休..... "waves rush, waves flow, for ten thousand miles the river's torrent does not cease", here well sung by Andy Lau ('Lau Tak-wa': 劉德華), who has also been in numerous great movies.
The series-name is sometimes given as 'Shanghai Shoals' - a much better translation of the title.
[Note: theme song to The Bund (上海灘) originally sung by Frances Yip ('Yip Lai-yi': 葉麗儀). Original sound: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OM8Y0_OnFgg. Concert performance: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4uBkWv8L0eg Note also that the modernized character version of her name looks virtually meaningless: 叶丽仪. Seriously, can anyone read that?!? Like Chow Yun-fat and Cherrie Chung, Frances Yip is Hakka.]
[Additional note, March 29, 2013: The link embedded under「浪奔, 浪流」had disappeared. In searching for a new link, I ran across this, which is delightfully strange. Hatsune Miku (a Japanese computer voice program) singing the theme song. Not bad.]
Those were good days. The Taai Ming Sing Hey Yuen closed sometime in the early nineties, the Ping Yuen Coffee shop ceased operations at roughly the same time. Jackson Street has changed a bit.
鄉音無改鬢毛衰
It was quite a pleasant surprise running into someone I knew from that long ago. Extremely flattering that she still remembered me, and could actually recognize me.
My hair has greyed a bit since then, but my voice is still the same.
And I'm still, apparently, one heck of a 靚仔.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 13, 2011
NIGHT MOORING
I guess it's a question of what I'm really comfortable with.
Your reasons make the most sense to you, the least sense to me.
But it wasn't my choice.
Late at night I occasionally look in at you when you're sleeping. You look so peaceful.
Ms. Bruin the teddy bear, your oldest friend and roommate, has a protective furry arm around you, as if to say "back off, boy, she's safe here".
And you are - I will always want you to have that security.
I enjoy the fact that you are still living with me, even though to a certain (large) extent it cramps my style.
[Purely hypothetical cramping, of course - I haven't found anyone new. Despite my screamingly butch and more than acceptable masculinity, this being San Francisco, I am S. out of L.
Not metrosexual enough, not artistic enough, and just hella not hip enough.]
I know that you still enjoy my company, because the various small critters (one-legged monkey, purple cat, rude little sock-sheep, Steiff Raccoon, et autres) still talk to me on the days when you are at home. Or try to steal my laundry money, while cheerfully insulting each other.
They are rather silent when you are gone.
At some point, there may be another voice or two.
Fuzzy additions to the raucous tribe.
A new voice, new conversations.
It's a possibility.
Even in this town there must be some folks who aren't into scarification, freakazoid clothing choices, punctured skin, carefully cultivated eccentricity, and studiously unique forms of self-expression.
There have just got to be real people, even in San Francisco.
Exceptional by reason of character, rather than by attempt.
In the meantime I will continue to look in on you when you are asleep. You look so innocent lying there........ all the worries of the day erased by repose.
A roommate now. Just a roommate.
Very nice, still. It's a comforting sight.
It says that this place is home.
You're a good friend.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Your reasons make the most sense to you, the least sense to me.
But it wasn't my choice.
Late at night I occasionally look in at you when you're sleeping. You look so peaceful.
Ms. Bruin the teddy bear, your oldest friend and roommate, has a protective furry arm around you, as if to say "back off, boy, she's safe here".
And you are - I will always want you to have that security.
I enjoy the fact that you are still living with me, even though to a certain (large) extent it cramps my style.
[Purely hypothetical cramping, of course - I haven't found anyone new. Despite my screamingly butch and more than acceptable masculinity, this being San Francisco, I am S. out of L.
Not metrosexual enough, not artistic enough, and just hella not hip enough.]
I know that you still enjoy my company, because the various small critters (one-legged monkey, purple cat, rude little sock-sheep, Steiff Raccoon, et autres) still talk to me on the days when you are at home. Or try to steal my laundry money, while cheerfully insulting each other.
They are rather silent when you are gone.
At some point, there may be another voice or two.
Fuzzy additions to the raucous tribe.
A new voice, new conversations.
It's a possibility.
Even in this town there must be some folks who aren't into scarification, freakazoid clothing choices, punctured skin, carefully cultivated eccentricity, and studiously unique forms of self-expression.
There have just got to be real people, even in San Francisco.
Exceptional by reason of character, rather than by attempt.
In the meantime I will continue to look in on you when you are asleep. You look so innocent lying there........ all the worries of the day erased by repose.
A roommate now. Just a roommate.
Very nice, still. It's a comforting sight.
It says that this place is home.
You're a good friend.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 12, 2011
BIG BUCKET OF SPRAY
My ex-girlfriend (Savage Kitten) has been telling me appreciatively that I am a chick magnet.
And apparently her current boyfriend ('Wheelie Boy') is incredibly jealous of the fact that I have great legs.
Astounding gams.
I have it on good authority.
Savage Kitten said so.
Wheelie Boy (which is what I call him, because he rolls around in a wheel chair) almost certainly does not have legs nearly as good as mine.
I wouldn't actually know. I'm not into male gams.
Even if I end up pushing him off the end of a pier (which would be an accident), I shall not particularly scope out his podialities at that time.
I hope he has burning acid reflux from his jealousy.
Suffering is good for him. It builds character.
Perhaps if I twiddle my gams at him he'll plotz from resentment.
I'm still shocked off at how fast she hooked up with him after breaking off with me.
After twenty years! Godverdomme! His jealousy should bite!
And as far as calling me a chick magnet, HELLOOOOO!!!!
I don't see any 'chicks'. Where are they?
I wouldn't mind some sincerely randy admiration right now!
Girls, I'm fully magnetized!
Shaking an attractive gam here, your appreciation please!
Hello?
Nope, not working. Some magnets are negatively charged, that's all there is to it.
They reject instead of attract. Defective.
The ever-optimistic sour grape within avers that of course this also works to my advantage. It has just got to.
And I'm fairly certain that some other "chick magnets" I have seen in action are either on the receiving end of penicilin, or the dispensing end of alimony right now. They just attracted too many random screws.
Either that or they're drained old farts like Hugh Heffner.
Chick magnetism may shrivel you up.
Whereas I and my fine gams are just happily wandering around Nob Hill, la la la la la, not a care in the world, wondering where the wimmins at.
The sour grape within has a remarkably positive attitude. Silly raisin.
I'm all fresh and born-again virginal. Well, something.
Quite the foxy profile, too. A good straight nose.
Character references available upon request.
Bright-eyed and bushy tailed.
Again, stressing the gams.
They're juicy!
Hello?
Unattached, available, reasonably intelligent, and nicely clean.
And actually quite a nice chap. Fairly considerate, too. Keen insight and a sharpish wit, when caffeinated.
Interesting personal style, reasonably good taste, not too eccentric.
Decent in many if not all aspects (lets ignore the perverse streak, it isn't really an issue - at least, it shouldn't be, unless you share everything with your parents OR your easily titillated thirteen year old cousin).
Just negatively charged.
It's probably the large karmic sign over my head that seems to be saying "chick repellant" in big bold sparkly neon letters. That may be sabotaging my progress.
Either that or the imaginary "no parking here" notice that accompanies me at all times.
The kind of 'chicks' I like would probably notice these things.
After all, they read.
Sad, really.
All these bright LITERATE young ladies, with their keen minds and lively interests!
Sparkly eyes and zesty temperaments.
And they are TOTALLY unaware of my fine masculine extremities!
Missing out, is what they are.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And apparently her current boyfriend ('Wheelie Boy') is incredibly jealous of the fact that I have great legs.
Astounding gams.
I have it on good authority.
Savage Kitten said so.
Wheelie Boy (which is what I call him, because he rolls around in a wheel chair) almost certainly does not have legs nearly as good as mine.
I wouldn't actually know. I'm not into male gams.
Even if I end up pushing him off the end of a pier (which would be an accident), I shall not particularly scope out his podialities at that time.
I hope he has burning acid reflux from his jealousy.
Suffering is good for him. It builds character.
Perhaps if I twiddle my gams at him he'll plotz from resentment.
I'm still shocked off at how fast she hooked up with him after breaking off with me.
After twenty years! Godverdomme! His jealousy should bite!
And as far as calling me a chick magnet, HELLOOOOO!!!!
I don't see any 'chicks'. Where are they?
I wouldn't mind some sincerely randy admiration right now!
Girls, I'm fully magnetized!
Shaking an attractive gam here, your appreciation please!
Hello?
Nope, not working. Some magnets are negatively charged, that's all there is to it.
They reject instead of attract. Defective.
The ever-optimistic sour grape within avers that of course this also works to my advantage. It has just got to.
And I'm fairly certain that some other "chick magnets" I have seen in action are either on the receiving end of penicilin, or the dispensing end of alimony right now. They just attracted too many random screws.
Either that or they're drained old farts like Hugh Heffner.
Chick magnetism may shrivel you up.
Whereas I and my fine gams are just happily wandering around Nob Hill, la la la la la, not a care in the world, wondering where the wimmins at.
The sour grape within has a remarkably positive attitude. Silly raisin.
I'm all fresh and born-again virginal. Well, something.
Quite the foxy profile, too. A good straight nose.
Character references available upon request.
Bright-eyed and bushy tailed.
Again, stressing the gams.
They're juicy!
Hello?
Unattached, available, reasonably intelligent, and nicely clean.
And actually quite a nice chap. Fairly considerate, too. Keen insight and a sharpish wit, when caffeinated.
Interesting personal style, reasonably good taste, not too eccentric.
Decent in many if not all aspects (lets ignore the perverse streak, it isn't really an issue - at least, it shouldn't be, unless you share everything with your parents OR your easily titillated thirteen year old cousin).
Just negatively charged.
It's probably the large karmic sign over my head that seems to be saying "chick repellant" in big bold sparkly neon letters. That may be sabotaging my progress.
Either that or the imaginary "no parking here" notice that accompanies me at all times.
The kind of 'chicks' I like would probably notice these things.
After all, they read.
Sad, really.
All these bright LITERATE young ladies, with their keen minds and lively interests!
Sparkly eyes and zesty temperaments.
And they are TOTALLY unaware of my fine masculine extremities!
Missing out, is what they are.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A BIT ABOUT PIPE REPAIR
Today I picked up five pipes that I had sent to be repaired. Nothing drastic, just new mouthpieces. The old ones were a bit worn.
Well now. I have seldom seen such crappy handiwork.
I am appalled.
While I lived in the Netherlands I once needed new stems. It took nearly six months because the Netherlands didn't have pipe repair people, and Dutch tobacconists have no clue how to do it themselves. The local shop sent the two pipes out to a factory, and eventually the factory sent them back. They had used metal tenons, cheap plastic bits, and shaved down the shanks to fit the mouthpiece, rather than utilizing actual carbon rubber blanks of correct dimensions.
They very efficiently ruined both pipes, and charged me an outrageous sum for that service.
My father was flabbergasted. When he still smoked a pipe, many tobacconists could turn out a replacement stem while you waited.
When I worked at Drucquer & Sons in Berkeley I would restore and clean collectable pipes in the back of the shop, but we'd send all stem jobs to Russ in Hayward.
Russ did far better stem work than I was capable of doing.
Yes, it took a week to ten days, but Russ made excellent mouthpieces.
Russ passed away several years ago.
He had worked into his eighties or maybe even early nineties, and was still in the repair business till a few weeks before the end. I had replacement stems made for some pipes back in 03 or 04, and though it took two to three weeks longer, the results were precisely what I expected.
Not so this time.
REPAIR REQUEST
Five items:
Comoy's "Old Bruyere" - bulldog.
Dulwich "Straight Grain" - bulldog.
Hardcastle "DeLuxe" - bulldog.
Peterson's "Supreme" - billiard.
Peterson's "Special" - bulldog.
Two new mouthpieces for each pipe - one saddle, one tapered.
No Peterson-type stems, please.
I included the printed descriptions above and the instructions with the pipes.
When I picked up the pipes the same sheet of paper was in the bag.
I am certain he saw it.
So what did the "repair shop" send back?
Two stems for each pipe.
Two SADDLE stems for each of the bulldogs.
Two TAPER stems for the billiard.
The stems do not fit flush with the lines of the pipes. Each one will have to be sanded down and re-polished. The tenons are rough and will need some work.
These are some ugly stems at present - it will take a bit of careful attention to make them presentable.
I did not ask that the pipes be polished. They were fine.
The son-of-a-bitch went ahead and gave them a heavy once-over with his buffing wheel.
Which means that the two bulldogs that had BEVELLED inner rims now have ROUNDED rims.
Again, this will require use of sandpaper.
I was planning to send my Dunhills in for new mouthpieces.
Now that will NOT happen.
Instead, I shall purchase a bunch of blanks from somewhere on the internet.
I can do better work than that rank incompetent.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Well now. I have seldom seen such crappy handiwork.
I am appalled.
While I lived in the Netherlands I once needed new stems. It took nearly six months because the Netherlands didn't have pipe repair people, and Dutch tobacconists have no clue how to do it themselves. The local shop sent the two pipes out to a factory, and eventually the factory sent them back. They had used metal tenons, cheap plastic bits, and shaved down the shanks to fit the mouthpiece, rather than utilizing actual carbon rubber blanks of correct dimensions.
They very efficiently ruined both pipes, and charged me an outrageous sum for that service.
My father was flabbergasted. When he still smoked a pipe, many tobacconists could turn out a replacement stem while you waited.
When I worked at Drucquer & Sons in Berkeley I would restore and clean collectable pipes in the back of the shop, but we'd send all stem jobs to Russ in Hayward.
Russ did far better stem work than I was capable of doing.
Yes, it took a week to ten days, but Russ made excellent mouthpieces.
Russ passed away several years ago.
He had worked into his eighties or maybe even early nineties, and was still in the repair business till a few weeks before the end. I had replacement stems made for some pipes back in 03 or 04, and though it took two to three weeks longer, the results were precisely what I expected.
Not so this time.
REPAIR REQUEST
Five items:
Comoy's "Old Bruyere" - bulldog.
Dulwich "Straight Grain" - bulldog.
Hardcastle "DeLuxe" - bulldog.
Peterson's "Supreme" - billiard.
Peterson's "Special" - bulldog.
Two new mouthpieces for each pipe - one saddle, one tapered.
No Peterson-type stems, please.
I included the printed descriptions above and the instructions with the pipes.
When I picked up the pipes the same sheet of paper was in the bag.
I am certain he saw it.
So what did the "repair shop" send back?
Two stems for each pipe.
Two SADDLE stems for each of the bulldogs.
Two TAPER stems for the billiard.
The stems do not fit flush with the lines of the pipes. Each one will have to be sanded down and re-polished. The tenons are rough and will need some work.
These are some ugly stems at present - it will take a bit of careful attention to make them presentable.
I did not ask that the pipes be polished. They were fine.
The son-of-a-bitch went ahead and gave them a heavy once-over with his buffing wheel.
Which means that the two bulldogs that had BEVELLED inner rims now have ROUNDED rims.
Again, this will require use of sandpaper.
I was planning to send my Dunhills in for new mouthpieces.
Now that will NOT happen.
Instead, I shall purchase a bunch of blanks from somewhere on the internet.
I can do better work than that rank incompetent.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 11, 2011
CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE
This post is essential. But not really meaningful. I had to post something – the previous post was attracting too much attention, and I want it to fade from view.
A reader has been giving me dating advice, you see.
"Well, if you're looking for classier, intelligent dates, don't look in sleazy bars. Perhaps Shul (Purim is coming!) libraries, symphonies, lectures, laundromats and upscale groceries in nicer neighborhoods (the old "which detergent do I use?" line might still work) etc. But certainly anywhere is better than your office! Get out a little. "
So that's why people attend the symphony - it's a giant meat rack!
I've always wondered.
I doubt that I could fool a young lady who habitually attended musical events for very long. My profound snoring would clue her in, fairly immediately, that I wasn't a serious music aficionado.
As a come-on, the phrase "shut that racket up, I'm sleeping" isn't very high on the list.
In actual fact, I am not looking for classier, more intelligent dates - that would suggest A) that there have actually been dates (there haven't), and B) that I have actively been looking (I haven't).
The idea of hanging out in shuls, symphonies, and laundromats, or scouring grocery stores, with as primary and only object chatting up likely females who have impressed me as being neither insane not attached has very little appeal.
Instead, I have several ideas of my own.
I would be grateful if my readers reviewed them, and gave them points according to likelihood, poetic license, 'interesting-tell-me-more', or "boy am I looking forward to reading about you in the newspaper".
Scale of 1 to 5.
And thank you.
1. Break into the Catholic Girls Orphanage with a crate of moonshine.
2. Jog along the waterfront covered in oil screaming about walruses.
3. Visit local hospitals to comfort weeping relatives of the dead.
4. March through Union Square every day with a "repent, bitches" sign.
5. Play the accordion.
I feel that these have much more chance of success than the current approach, which is basically non-existent. And certainly as much of a chance as the suggestions of a reader who seems fondly, strangely, and utterly convinced that I am bowed under a crushing weight of senseless "I'll hump anything along as it isn't quite dead yet" sexual frustration.
To recap several points I've made earlier:
No beautiful brainless twits.
No tipsy college students.
No chain-smoking party girls from Daly City.
No fratboy-bait trollops.
No drunken chance-met floozies.
No tattoos, no piercings, no keffiyehs, no alcoholics, no Christians, no druggies, no poetic meaningful existentialists, no radicals, no artistic types, no crazies, no grannies, no hipsters, no earth-mother types, no vegans, no French-speakers, no valley girls, no spam brains, no golf-players.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A reader has been giving me dating advice, you see.
"Well, if you're looking for classier, intelligent dates, don't look in sleazy bars. Perhaps Shul (Purim is coming!) libraries, symphonies, lectures, laundromats and upscale groceries in nicer neighborhoods (the old "which detergent do I use?" line might still work) etc. But certainly anywhere is better than your office! Get out a little. "
So that's why people attend the symphony - it's a giant meat rack!
I've always wondered.
I doubt that I could fool a young lady who habitually attended musical events for very long. My profound snoring would clue her in, fairly immediately, that I wasn't a serious music aficionado.
As a come-on, the phrase "shut that racket up, I'm sleeping" isn't very high on the list.
In actual fact, I am not looking for classier, more intelligent dates - that would suggest A) that there have actually been dates (there haven't), and B) that I have actively been looking (I haven't).
The idea of hanging out in shuls, symphonies, and laundromats, or scouring grocery stores, with as primary and only object chatting up likely females who have impressed me as being neither insane not attached has very little appeal.
Instead, I have several ideas of my own.
I would be grateful if my readers reviewed them, and gave them points according to likelihood, poetic license, 'interesting-tell-me-more', or "boy am I looking forward to reading about you in the newspaper".
Scale of 1 to 5.
And thank you.
1. Break into the Catholic Girls Orphanage with a crate of moonshine.
2. Jog along the waterfront covered in oil screaming about walruses.
3. Visit local hospitals to comfort weeping relatives of the dead.
4. March through Union Square every day with a "repent, bitches" sign.
5. Play the accordion.
I feel that these have much more chance of success than the current approach, which is basically non-existent. And certainly as much of a chance as the suggestions of a reader who seems fondly, strangely, and utterly convinced that I am bowed under a crushing weight of senseless "I'll hump anything along as it isn't quite dead yet" sexual frustration.
To recap several points I've made earlier:
No beautiful brainless twits.
No tipsy college students.
No chain-smoking party girls from Daly City.
No fratboy-bait trollops.
No drunken chance-met floozies.
No tattoos, no piercings, no keffiyehs, no alcoholics, no Christians, no druggies, no poetic meaningful existentialists, no radicals, no artistic types, no crazies, no grannies, no hipsters, no earth-mother types, no vegans, no French-speakers, no valley girls, no spam brains, no golf-players.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 10, 2011
SURVEYING THE WASTELAND
These past several months have been educational. Savage Kitten called an end to our relationship last summer. Since then I have learned several things. Amongst others, a straight man needs both body odour and tattoos to get laid in San Francisco, and that desperation leads to strange acts.
Lets discuss the sex life of straight San Francisco men first. Tattoos are immensely attractive to the contemporary female. I have regularly seen what I thought were civilized young ladies swooning over idiots with tattoos, piercings, and dubious personal cleanliness.
Raggedy facial hair that screams "I am an artist" or "I am a rebel" also helps.
Consequently I must conclude that women in this city are insane. Stark raving bonkers. Out of their minds. Weirdo skank-sex maniacs.
What absolutely proves it is that NONE of the well-behaved rational washed straight men of my acquaintance have gotten any physical lovin' in years. Shaving, clean clothes, and a reasonable level of literacy - absolutely the death-knell for your sex life. Trust me.
It explains all the Mid-Westerners and Rednecks with stupid smiles all over their faces in this city.
Fairly decent men are perforce made monks.
No wonder this world is going to hell.
Now, as far as strange behaviour is concerned, let's talk about substitutes for sex. We are not Woody Allen.
So we engage in unusual practices.
Chocolate ice-cream with Tabasco? Check.
Poking myself in the ear with a writing implement? Check.
Jelly donut washed down with Crystal hot sauce? Check.
Personal grooming with fork and sand paper? Check.
Sriracha chilisauce and large gummy tapioca balls? Check.
Frying stale pizza face-down in almond oil? Check.
Habañero and spam sandwich? Check.
Painting torso with lipstick? Check.
Cayenne-dusted frozen apple pie? Check.
Trust me, it all works. Conceivably far better than an actual other person.
I can't remember what warm flesh feels like, but I remember the last capsaicin high I had.
I'd be surprised if the average clean straight man without piercings, tattoos, or highly individualistic clothing and hair gets whoopee as often as once a year in this city. Certainly knowledge of soap, and an avoidance of party drugs, criminal behaviour, and stupidity, don't lead to a mutually satisfying hot relationship.
Not in San Francisco.
There must be sane women here. Just wish I knew where both of them hung out. Or all three, if there's more.
Until I know, I guess I'll just admire, fondle, and stroke some fine fresh Jalapenos. Taught and green.
Maybe dip them in creamy bacon ranch and enfold them languorously, run their smooth tight narrow-ends over my pouty lips
Sing love songs to my well-built torso in the mirror while posing with them.
Green chile dance. Tres interpretief.
Skip, skip, and pose.
Caffeine and nicotine are also good. So is a juicy coriander-crusted chop just oozing grease.
Or cookies.
Just add sugar.
It all goes well with hot.
Like nothing else in this city.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Lets discuss the sex life of straight San Francisco men first. Tattoos are immensely attractive to the contemporary female. I have regularly seen what I thought were civilized young ladies swooning over idiots with tattoos, piercings, and dubious personal cleanliness.
Raggedy facial hair that screams "I am an artist" or "I am a rebel" also helps.
Consequently I must conclude that women in this city are insane. Stark raving bonkers. Out of their minds. Weirdo skank-sex maniacs.
What absolutely proves it is that NONE of the well-behaved rational washed straight men of my acquaintance have gotten any physical lovin' in years. Shaving, clean clothes, and a reasonable level of literacy - absolutely the death-knell for your sex life. Trust me.
It explains all the Mid-Westerners and Rednecks with stupid smiles all over their faces in this city.
Fairly decent men are perforce made monks.
No wonder this world is going to hell.
Now, as far as strange behaviour is concerned, let's talk about substitutes for sex. We are not Woody Allen.
So we engage in unusual practices.
Chocolate ice-cream with Tabasco? Check.
Poking myself in the ear with a writing implement? Check.
Jelly donut washed down with Crystal hot sauce? Check.
Personal grooming with fork and sand paper? Check.
Sriracha chilisauce and large gummy tapioca balls? Check.
Frying stale pizza face-down in almond oil? Check.
Habañero and spam sandwich? Check.
Painting torso with lipstick? Check.
Cayenne-dusted frozen apple pie? Check.
Trust me, it all works. Conceivably far better than an actual other person.
I can't remember what warm flesh feels like, but I remember the last capsaicin high I had.
I'd be surprised if the average clean straight man without piercings, tattoos, or highly individualistic clothing and hair gets whoopee as often as once a year in this city. Certainly knowledge of soap, and an avoidance of party drugs, criminal behaviour, and stupidity, don't lead to a mutually satisfying hot relationship.
Not in San Francisco.
There must be sane women here. Just wish I knew where both of them hung out. Or all three, if there's more.
Until I know, I guess I'll just admire, fondle, and stroke some fine fresh Jalapenos. Taught and green.
Maybe dip them in creamy bacon ranch and enfold them languorously, run their smooth tight narrow-ends over my pouty lips
Sing love songs to my well-built torso in the mirror while posing with them.
Green chile dance. Tres interpretief.
Skip, skip, and pose.
Caffeine and nicotine are also good. So is a juicy coriander-crusted chop just oozing grease.
Or cookies.
Just add sugar.
It all goes well with hot.
Like nothing else in this city.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BRUTAL ASSAULT
Really, I should know better by now. It may be called "Linguiça" by its utterly misguided and criminally insane manufacturer, but that is a complete misnomer.
It's actually something that came out of Satan's body. Possibly the devil's earwax.
Darn thing redefines corporal punishment.
Juicy, flaming red, gut-busting punishment.
They should feed it to children. Properly chasten the little monsters. Bruise them good.
But they probably don't because of the delayed effect.
Whatever it is, it sure isn't Linguiça. That gentle name is entirely misapplied to this evil comestible. Calling it by so innocuous a name is a villainous slander, and Portugal should sue the bastards wot done it for defamation.
One thing you should know about your digestive system is that it strips the protective oils and fats (i.e. "hog grease") off certain foods. The reason why those foods have those things is because the manufacturer is a vicious sadist who enjoys pulling the legs off of kittens, fiercely whips his wheelchair-bound granddad, and slow-boils the pet goldfish.
I can only speculate about how he treats his poor wife and kids.
They probably go to bed crying every night, scared of what the mean sob will do next.
A real Christian.
Once the protective oils and fats ("hog grease") have been stripped off, the fiery chilies within are no longer masked, nor subdued.
They come awake inside your stomach, and dance around on their little spike heels doing the cha cha.
Several hours later those chilies will collectively try to fight their way out of your system. Kind of like the Vietcong in the tunnels of Củ Chi. Same bloody mindedness. They're intent on doing as much damage to the United States as possible. Savage.
Think in terms of a napalm attack.
The fire, the stinging, the pain, the cramped curling up in agony, the girlish screaming in terror.
Which is a horrible way to wake up!
And I should know better by now. Each packet of these alleged Linguiças has two large long sausages composed of crumbly fatty bright red coloured pork.
Half of one sausage is enough to fill a toasty bun.
Yesterday evening I fried up the remaining half.
So I really should've known what to expect.
Especially as I had already used the first sausage, and this was the last part of the second one.
Guess I just didn't want to waste good food.
So it's my own fault.
I know what those daemonic wursts are capable of.
Boy-howdy.
I'm already on my fifth pack.
This brand is totally excellent.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It's actually something that came out of Satan's body. Possibly the devil's earwax.
Darn thing redefines corporal punishment.
Juicy, flaming red, gut-busting punishment.
They should feed it to children. Properly chasten the little monsters. Bruise them good.
But they probably don't because of the delayed effect.
Whatever it is, it sure isn't Linguiça. That gentle name is entirely misapplied to this evil comestible. Calling it by so innocuous a name is a villainous slander, and Portugal should sue the bastards wot done it for defamation.
One thing you should know about your digestive system is that it strips the protective oils and fats (i.e. "hog grease") off certain foods. The reason why those foods have those things is because the manufacturer is a vicious sadist who enjoys pulling the legs off of kittens, fiercely whips his wheelchair-bound granddad, and slow-boils the pet goldfish.
I can only speculate about how he treats his poor wife and kids.
They probably go to bed crying every night, scared of what the mean sob will do next.
A real Christian.
Once the protective oils and fats ("hog grease") have been stripped off, the fiery chilies within are no longer masked, nor subdued.
They come awake inside your stomach, and dance around on their little spike heels doing the cha cha.
Several hours later those chilies will collectively try to fight their way out of your system. Kind of like the Vietcong in the tunnels of Củ Chi. Same bloody mindedness. They're intent on doing as much damage to the United States as possible. Savage.
Think in terms of a napalm attack.
The fire, the stinging, the pain, the cramped curling up in agony, the girlish screaming in terror.
Which is a horrible way to wake up!
And I should know better by now. Each packet of these alleged Linguiças has two large long sausages composed of crumbly fatty bright red coloured pork.
Half of one sausage is enough to fill a toasty bun.
Yesterday evening I fried up the remaining half.
So I really should've known what to expect.
Especially as I had already used the first sausage, and this was the last part of the second one.
Guess I just didn't want to waste good food.
So it's my own fault.
I know what those daemonic wursts are capable of.
Boy-howdy.
I'm already on my fifth pack.
This brand is totally excellent.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
FLOWER MARKET ROAD IN MONGKOK: 旺角花墟道
Easiest to simply take the MTR. The Mongkok East Station (旺角東) is near Grand Century Place (新世紀廣場) and the Diocesan Boys School (拔萃男書院).
The much more convenient Prince Edward Station (太子) is at the intersection of Nathan Road (彌敦道) and Prince Edward Road West (太子道西).
Go east four short blocks on Prince Edward Road West.
On Sai Yee Street (洗衣街), turn left and go up one block.
[Prince Edward Road West runs from Kowloon to Mongkok just south of the boundary between Southern Kowloon (ceded 1860) and Northern Kowloon (leased 1898). Originally named Edward Avenue (宜華徑) , it was renamed Prince Edward Road (英皇子道) in 1924, and in 1958 the Chinese name was changed to 太子道. Since 1979 it has been Prince Edward Road West (太子道西).]
In front of you will be the corner of the Boundary Street Playground (界限街游樂場), a little further along the block you'll find the entrance to Boundary Street Sports Centre No. 1 (界限街一號體育館) facing Playing Field Street (運動場道) and a building labeled 香島專科學校 (Heung To College of Professional Studies - sort of the equivalent of Heald College in SF). There are a number of 'not-quite academic' learning institutions on Playing Field Street here, but the Fook Sing Fo Wok Hoi Sien Jau Ka right next to the 7-11 is NOT a college...... though quite likely filled with students at any given time.
[富城火鍋海鲜酒家 (Fook Sing Fo Wok Hoi Sien Jau Ka - no English name, no phonetically transcribed name either): The happy city hot pot restaurant, right across from fong fong fa diem. I have not eaten there. But you should, and report back to me. I'm fairly certain they also do dimsum.]
ALL FLOWERS
But what you are really here for is flowers - so don't go further up Sai Yee Street just yet, but turn right. For the next two blocks, drink in the colours and smells. Along the side of Flower Market Road (花墟道) there will be dozens of shops selling fresh flowers and potted plants. You may have to squeeze past delivery trucks as you walk along - the flowers spread out into the area reserved for parking, and it is just a one lane street.
Yuen Ngai Street (園藝街) on your right in between the two blocks is also worth strolling into.
The Saint Honoré Cake Shop (聖安娜餅屋) exactly at the corner of Flower Market and Yuen Ngai is perhaps worth visiting - Cheesecake, cocoa cream pastry, chocolate truffle cake. Beautiful stuff. But if at this point you really need a snack, you could also go down Yuen Ngai Street to the corner of Prince Edward, and turn right. About six doors down is the place you're looking for.
UNCLE FONG "嘩, 鬼死咁好食!"
Little eggy tarts and many other bakery products. 蛋糕、麵包、曲奇, 雞蛋仔, 杏仁蛋白蛋糕, 天使蛋白蛋糕, 藍莓味瑪芬..... cakes, breads, cookies, kaidanchai, almond slivers angel food cake, blueberry muffin.....
Upon seeing the kaidanchai, your reaction may very well be "holy hootchie mama, what IS that thing?!?" Yes, it does look rather like an outer-space alien left part of his face here on earth. It's hard to describe. Basically a bulgy weird diseased bubbly sheet snack. If that makes any sense.
Spot review from a friend: "wah, kwai sei gam ho sik!" - wow, demon dead so good eat!
Those words were peculiarly well chosen. Apt. Given what the odd thing looks like.
I have never had one.
Eggs, flour, egg yolk, sugar, fresh milk, almond flavour. Poured into a honey-comb waffle iron.
I'm sure it's good. 好正, in fact,
Uncle Fong (芳叔) is a chain of bakeries, related in some way to Maria's.
There's another bakery near the middle of the block, right next to the 7-11: The Supreme (貴族蛋糕), 160A Prince Edward Road West. Maybe the best cheese cake (芝士蛋糕) in Hong Kong. Their various other cakes look very much like the stuff at the Double A (永興餅家茶餐廳 AA Bakery & Café, 1068 Stockton Street) here in San Francisco. Lovely and appetizing.
Most of the businesses in this two-block stretch of Prince Edward Street are related to flowers and plants, interspersed with the odd school-uniform shop, tailors, or shoe seller. Same goes for Yuen Po Street (園圃街) to the east, opposite the loading dock of the Grand Century Place across Prince Edward Street.
If you continue along Yuen Po back to Flower Market Street, you will come to the entrance of the Yuen Po Street Bird Garden (園圃街雀鳥花園) right at the corner. Here is where Hong Kong's songbird aficionados can purchase fine exemplars, plus admire each others' prize specimens. Above the embankment is the back end of the Mongkok Stadium (旺角大球場 - "Mongkok big ball arena") - I have no idea what game is played there, as I am in gonzen not interested in sports.
At this point you are probably ravenous - you may have to go back to 運動場道 and see if 富城火鍋海鲜酒家 still exists.
That really would be a splendid idea. Go for it.
Remember, I would love to hear what it's like - a full report, please.
Or you could walk around.....
If you're totally frantic, there's a Pizza Hut at the corner of Fa Yuen Street (花園街) and Playing Field Street, just up to the right and across.
Pizza Hut..... pizza. Cheese pie. Hmmmmmph.
* * * * *
But to your left, just down from the corner of Playing Field, on the left hand side of Fa Yuen, is an entire row of eateries - Hakka Concept Kitchen (客家人概念廚坊), a Chop house, a Shanghai fandiem, a small noodle shop, a vegetarian restaurant, a Macanese dining hall, a Saigon noodle soup joint, and right next door to that, at the end of the row, is 七喜粥麵小廚 (no English name). Just ask for "chat hei jook mien siu tsyu".
I've been told that their congee is excellent - "又平啊, 又好食... 呢度既牛肉粥真係好味!" ('cheap and tasty... this place's beef rice-porridge is really delicious!').
The Chinese broccoli with little flakes of dried fish is likewise very good.
They also have pork blood, wonton, fish balls.
Who doesn't like fish balls?
Everybody loves fish balls, right?
Right?
It's just like gefilte fish. Except firm and bouncy.
Actually, I'd be willing to bet that all of the restaurants in this stretch, including the noodle joint across the street with the red awning (麵留香茶餐廳), as well as a large hole in the wall (鳳之味) are pretty darn good. Most apartment buildings here are about fourteen or fifteen storeys tall, so there are a lot of customers living nearby.
Several hundred very particular people at least.
[For casual snacking and desserts, try this place: 四哥台式雪花冰專門店 at no. 211A. Taiwan style shave ice, and sweet pudding type dishes. Red bean soup, lotus seed soup, etcetera. Sei go toi-sik suut-fa bing jyun moon diem.]
* * * * *
An incomplete list of flower shops in Kowloon:
尖沙咀 TSIM SHA TSUI: 新記花店、 維納斯花廊、 半島花店、 牛記花店、 聯藝花店、 利寶花店、 格蘭花店、 東方花舍、 祥興花店、 花道工作室、 花盧。
尖東 TSIM TUNG: 紫之夢禮品花店、 水橋花、 花城花店。
旺角 MONG KOK: 香港花店送禮坊。 Casablanca Flower Shop、 花團錦簇、 佳佳花店、 山城花藝、 心怡花舍、 繽紛花店、 培記、 百利花卉、 時新花店。
油麻地 YAU MA TEI: 龍寶花店、 秀蘭軒、 妍楓鮮花。
觀塘 KWUN TONG: 雅麗花屋、 水晶花屋、 四季棧花店、 花藝舍、 花藝軒。
紅磡 HUNG HOM: 妍楓鮮花、 有間花店、 而影鮮花批發、 四季花舍、 世界花店、 明華花店。
長沙灣 CHEUNG SHA WAN: 花。果店、 緣份廊、 匯林里花廊、 卓思花藝、 怡豐禮品設計、 沙崙花藝創作、 攸然自得花圃 合興花店。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The much more convenient Prince Edward Station (太子) is at the intersection of Nathan Road (彌敦道) and Prince Edward Road West (太子道西).
Go east four short blocks on Prince Edward Road West.
On Sai Yee Street (洗衣街), turn left and go up one block.
[Prince Edward Road West runs from Kowloon to Mongkok just south of the boundary between Southern Kowloon (ceded 1860) and Northern Kowloon (leased 1898). Originally named Edward Avenue (宜華徑) , it was renamed Prince Edward Road (英皇子道) in 1924, and in 1958 the Chinese name was changed to 太子道. Since 1979 it has been Prince Edward Road West (太子道西).]
In front of you will be the corner of the Boundary Street Playground (界限街游樂場), a little further along the block you'll find the entrance to Boundary Street Sports Centre No. 1 (界限街一號體育館) facing Playing Field Street (運動場道) and a building labeled 香島專科學校 (Heung To College of Professional Studies - sort of the equivalent of Heald College in SF). There are a number of 'not-quite academic' learning institutions on Playing Field Street here, but the Fook Sing Fo Wok Hoi Sien Jau Ka right next to the 7-11 is NOT a college...... though quite likely filled with students at any given time.
[富城火鍋海鲜酒家 (Fook Sing Fo Wok Hoi Sien Jau Ka - no English name, no phonetically transcribed name either): The happy city hot pot restaurant, right across from fong fong fa diem. I have not eaten there. But you should, and report back to me. I'm fairly certain they also do dimsum.]
ALL FLOWERS
But what you are really here for is flowers - so don't go further up Sai Yee Street just yet, but turn right. For the next two blocks, drink in the colours and smells. Along the side of Flower Market Road (花墟道) there will be dozens of shops selling fresh flowers and potted plants. You may have to squeeze past delivery trucks as you walk along - the flowers spread out into the area reserved for parking, and it is just a one lane street.
Yuen Ngai Street (園藝街) on your right in between the two blocks is also worth strolling into.
The Saint Honoré Cake Shop (聖安娜餅屋) exactly at the corner of Flower Market and Yuen Ngai is perhaps worth visiting - Cheesecake, cocoa cream pastry, chocolate truffle cake. Beautiful stuff. But if at this point you really need a snack, you could also go down Yuen Ngai Street to the corner of Prince Edward, and turn right. About six doors down is the place you're looking for.
UNCLE FONG "嘩, 鬼死咁好食!"
Little eggy tarts and many other bakery products. 蛋糕、麵包、曲奇, 雞蛋仔, 杏仁蛋白蛋糕, 天使蛋白蛋糕, 藍莓味瑪芬..... cakes, breads, cookies, kaidanchai, almond slivers angel food cake, blueberry muffin.....
Upon seeing the kaidanchai, your reaction may very well be "holy hootchie mama, what IS that thing?!?" Yes, it does look rather like an outer-space alien left part of his face here on earth. It's hard to describe. Basically a bulgy weird diseased bubbly sheet snack. If that makes any sense.
Spot review from a friend: "wah, kwai sei gam ho sik!" - wow, demon dead so good eat!
Those words were peculiarly well chosen. Apt. Given what the odd thing looks like.
I have never had one.
Eggs, flour, egg yolk, sugar, fresh milk, almond flavour. Poured into a honey-comb waffle iron.
I'm sure it's good. 好正, in fact,
Uncle Fong (芳叔) is a chain of bakeries, related in some way to Maria's.
There's another bakery near the middle of the block, right next to the 7-11: The Supreme (貴族蛋糕), 160A Prince Edward Road West. Maybe the best cheese cake (芝士蛋糕) in Hong Kong. Their various other cakes look very much like the stuff at the Double A (永興餅家茶餐廳 AA Bakery & Café, 1068 Stockton Street) here in San Francisco. Lovely and appetizing.
Most of the businesses in this two-block stretch of Prince Edward Street are related to flowers and plants, interspersed with the odd school-uniform shop, tailors, or shoe seller. Same goes for Yuen Po Street (園圃街) to the east, opposite the loading dock of the Grand Century Place across Prince Edward Street.
If you continue along Yuen Po back to Flower Market Street, you will come to the entrance of the Yuen Po Street Bird Garden (園圃街雀鳥花園) right at the corner. Here is where Hong Kong's songbird aficionados can purchase fine exemplars, plus admire each others' prize specimens. Above the embankment is the back end of the Mongkok Stadium (旺角大球場 - "Mongkok big ball arena") - I have no idea what game is played there, as I am in gonzen not interested in sports.
At this point you are probably ravenous - you may have to go back to 運動場道 and see if 富城火鍋海鲜酒家 still exists.
That really would be a splendid idea. Go for it.
Remember, I would love to hear what it's like - a full report, please.
Or you could walk around.....
If you're totally frantic, there's a Pizza Hut at the corner of Fa Yuen Street (花園街) and Playing Field Street, just up to the right and across.
Pizza Hut..... pizza. Cheese pie. Hmmmmmph.
* * * * *
But to your left, just down from the corner of Playing Field, on the left hand side of Fa Yuen, is an entire row of eateries - Hakka Concept Kitchen (客家人概念廚坊), a Chop house, a Shanghai fandiem, a small noodle shop, a vegetarian restaurant, a Macanese dining hall, a Saigon noodle soup joint, and right next door to that, at the end of the row, is 七喜粥麵小廚 (no English name). Just ask for "chat hei jook mien siu tsyu".
I've been told that their congee is excellent - "又平啊, 又好食... 呢度既牛肉粥真係好味!" ('cheap and tasty... this place's beef rice-porridge is really delicious!').
The Chinese broccoli with little flakes of dried fish is likewise very good.
They also have pork blood, wonton, fish balls.
Who doesn't like fish balls?
Everybody loves fish balls, right?
Right?
It's just like gefilte fish. Except firm and bouncy.
Actually, I'd be willing to bet that all of the restaurants in this stretch, including the noodle joint across the street with the red awning (麵留香茶餐廳), as well as a large hole in the wall (鳳之味) are pretty darn good. Most apartment buildings here are about fourteen or fifteen storeys tall, so there are a lot of customers living nearby.
Several hundred very particular people at least.
[For casual snacking and desserts, try this place: 四哥台式雪花冰專門店 at no. 211A. Taiwan style shave ice, and sweet pudding type dishes. Red bean soup, lotus seed soup, etcetera. Sei go toi-sik suut-fa bing jyun moon diem.]
* * * * *
An incomplete list of flower shops in Kowloon:
尖沙咀 TSIM SHA TSUI: 新記花店、 維納斯花廊、 半島花店、 牛記花店、 聯藝花店、 利寶花店、 格蘭花店、 東方花舍、 祥興花店、 花道工作室、 花盧。
尖東 TSIM TUNG: 紫之夢禮品花店、 水橋花、 花城花店。
旺角 MONG KOK: 香港花店送禮坊。 Casablanca Flower Shop、 花團錦簇、 佳佳花店、 山城花藝、 心怡花舍、 繽紛花店、 培記、 百利花卉、 時新花店。
油麻地 YAU MA TEI: 龍寶花店、 秀蘭軒、 妍楓鮮花。
觀塘 KWUN TONG: 雅麗花屋、 水晶花屋、 四季棧花店、 花藝舍、 花藝軒。
紅磡 HUNG HOM: 妍楓鮮花、 有間花店、 而影鮮花批發、 四季花舍、 世界花店、 明華花店。
長沙灣 CHEUNG SHA WAN: 花。果店、 緣份廊、 匯林里花廊、 卓思花藝、 怡豐禮品設計、 沙崙花藝創作、 攸然自得花圃 合興花店。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
NOT THAT DESPERATE, NEVER THAT DESPERATE
One of my readers, distressed at the dissolution of my long-time relationship with Savage Kitten, has been encouraging me to have what might be called an intermediate fling.
So far, he (I assume it's a 'he') has suggested Philippinas, drunken college girls, and tattooed hussies.
QUOTE:
"For that brief healthful romance, it wouldn't even matter if she were a tipsy, red hot Fillipina shoe obsessed shopper, as long as she didn't talk about it, eh? Have you ever hear the slang word, "spinner"?"
It's an interesting, if quite appalling concept. Using the term "romance" in such a context is an extremely poor choice of words.
While I will accept that there might actually be Philippinas that are not vulgar semi-illiterate compulsively consumerist status-queens, and who don't apply the comparison-shopping methodology to everything in their lives, the idea of casual sex ("brief etc.") does not appeal.
Such a thing is best left to the lower-classes in any case - they need something to occupy their pretty little finger-nail painted hands in between American Idol and Oprah Winfrey.
As for drunken seduction of young ladies, I should mention that I am not a fraternity boy. Consequently, I do not have a yen for violent congress in puddles of vomit and stale beer.
That's not even taking the sleaze factor into account - teenagers might be forgiven utilizing alcohol as fuel for irresponsible physical acts, what with hormones, desperation, frustration, idiocy, and rebelling against the verkrampte Puritanism of their parents, as well as the pornographic effect of video-games on their spongy young minds - but an adult man who takes advantage of intoxicated women conceivably has Heffnerish fantasies and no ethics.
I may be a bit of a grouch, but I am not a douche.
The less said about the 'unique individualists' who have a compulsion to mark up their bodies like so many sides of beef, with tramp-stamps and tribal stripes, the better.
Bad graphics may indeed be improved by tattooing them on a tit.
But I would rather keep the immature superficialists who have so little self-respect at far much more than arms length.
Trash and tattoos - chos ve sholom!
To put it plainly, my depraved fantasies involve sensible intelligent decent women.
Nice people, or bust.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
So far, he (I assume it's a 'he') has suggested Philippinas, drunken college girls, and tattooed hussies.
QUOTE:
"For that brief healthful romance, it wouldn't even matter if she were a tipsy, red hot Fillipina shoe obsessed shopper, as long as she didn't talk about it, eh? Have you ever hear the slang word, "spinner"?"
It's an interesting, if quite appalling concept. Using the term "romance" in such a context is an extremely poor choice of words.
While I will accept that there might actually be Philippinas that are not vulgar semi-illiterate compulsively consumerist status-queens, and who don't apply the comparison-shopping methodology to everything in their lives, the idea of casual sex ("brief etc.") does not appeal.
Such a thing is best left to the lower-classes in any case - they need something to occupy their pretty little finger-nail painted hands in between American Idol and Oprah Winfrey.
As for drunken seduction of young ladies, I should mention that I am not a fraternity boy. Consequently, I do not have a yen for violent congress in puddles of vomit and stale beer.
That's not even taking the sleaze factor into account - teenagers might be forgiven utilizing alcohol as fuel for irresponsible physical acts, what with hormones, desperation, frustration, idiocy, and rebelling against the verkrampte Puritanism of their parents, as well as the pornographic effect of video-games on their spongy young minds - but an adult man who takes advantage of intoxicated women conceivably has Heffnerish fantasies and no ethics.
I may be a bit of a grouch, but I am not a douche.
The less said about the 'unique individualists' who have a compulsion to mark up their bodies like so many sides of beef, with tramp-stamps and tribal stripes, the better.
Bad graphics may indeed be improved by tattooing them on a tit.
But I would rather keep the immature superficialists who have so little self-respect at far much more than arms length.
Trash and tattoos - chos ve sholom!
To put it plainly, my depraved fantasies involve sensible intelligent decent women.
Nice people, or bust.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
RESISTING MY PETTY BONE
Hard to figure out what to think right now.
Don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
Recently she and her boyfriend have been experiencing severe friction.
The situation between them isn't going well.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
I won't go into the whys and wherefores of their issues, as that is a private matter. But of course I'm taking her side. I can't help it.
Even though our relationship is over, I nevertheless want that woman to be happy.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
So I shan't gloat about this turn of events. She's not a happy camper right now, and it would not be the gentlemanly thing to do.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
I could've predicted that this would happen. I've never understood why she ended our relationship, but at this point I recognize the process. And I know what bugs her.
I'm still feeling burnt from how she broke up with me, what she said at that time, and the brutal finality of the cut.
So if her thing with him ends, there will be no attempt to pick up where we left off.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
I'm not waiting in the wings.
I have too much pride and self-respect, and I have moved on.
It was wonderful while it lasted - but I was not able to read the writing on the wall, and it's completely over now. It has been over for quite a while.
The past cannot be recaptured.
When things end, they end.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
So I am absolutely NOT going to gloat. Not a smile will crack my face. I'll be gentle and supportive, because that's what friends do. She's very dear to me after all these years, and I want to continue knowing her. Gloating isn't right, and would be quite destructive.
I'm attempting to be a decent person about all this.
Gotta keep trying.
I shall not gloat.
Besides, I'm way too tired to gloat anyhow.
She woke up at four this morning, and consequently I woke up shortly thereafter.
Had my morning coffee before it was even light out.
I'm in no condition to gloat.
Betcha the poor girl will be absolutely exhausted by this evening.
I should probably get her some soup.
After she's fallen asleep I will smoke in the teevee room.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
Recently she and her boyfriend have been experiencing severe friction.
The situation between them isn't going well.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
I won't go into the whys and wherefores of their issues, as that is a private matter. But of course I'm taking her side. I can't help it.
Even though our relationship is over, I nevertheless want that woman to be happy.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
So I shan't gloat about this turn of events. She's not a happy camper right now, and it would not be the gentlemanly thing to do.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
I could've predicted that this would happen. I've never understood why she ended our relationship, but at this point I recognize the process. And I know what bugs her.
I'm still feeling burnt from how she broke up with me, what she said at that time, and the brutal finality of the cut.
So if her thing with him ends, there will be no attempt to pick up where we left off.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
I'm not waiting in the wings.
I have too much pride and self-respect, and I have moved on.
It was wonderful while it lasted - but I was not able to read the writing on the wall, and it's completely over now. It has been over for quite a while.
The past cannot be recaptured.
When things end, they end.
...don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat, don't gloat...
So I am absolutely NOT going to gloat. Not a smile will crack my face. I'll be gentle and supportive, because that's what friends do. She's very dear to me after all these years, and I want to continue knowing her. Gloating isn't right, and would be quite destructive.
I'm attempting to be a decent person about all this.
Gotta keep trying.
I shall not gloat.
Besides, I'm way too tired to gloat anyhow.
She woke up at four this morning, and consequently I woke up shortly thereafter.
Had my morning coffee before it was even light out.
I'm in no condition to gloat.
Betcha the poor girl will be absolutely exhausted by this evening.
I should probably get her some soup.
After she's fallen asleep I will smoke in the teevee room.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 07, 2011
MASTER HUNG, PLAYING MASTER HUNG
One of the Hong Kong movie actors who is always fun to watch is Hung Kampo (洪金寶), also known as Sammo Hung, and 大哥大.
[The name Sammo comes from 三毛, a character in a Chinese comic strip. 大哥大 ("taai-go taai") means oldest of the brothers, and derives from his early work in kungfu movies.]
Hung Kampo is an unlikely martial arts actor, in that he veers towards the rotund.
His involvement in this field was primarily due to his Peking Opera training, particularly the choreography of movements on stage in martial operas. After working as a stuntman for a few years during his teens, he went to Korea and actually studied kungfu.
Since then, following in the footsteps of his grandmother (Chin Tsi-Ang 錢似鶯), he has further developed his craft and honed his quite considerable skill.
[Chin Tsi-Ang (錢似鶯): the first female movie martial artist, sixteen years old in her first movie role in 1925, aged 90 in her last, made in 2000. She died in 2007.]
He is probably the fastest fat man you'll ever see. One of his best roles, though least lauded, was in the short-lived American television series 'Martial Law'. In one early scene he proved his artistry by deftly, elegantly, wittily, beating the crap out of someone with a chalk-board eraser. Clouds of white dust everywhere!
The most recent Hung Kampo movie I've watched is Ip Man 2.
It isn't his movie, but he is one of the primary actors in it.
I suspect that it would have been a more fully developed tale had he written it, or directed it.
葉問2: 宗師傳奇 IP MAN 2
Master Yip (Ip Man, played by Donnie Yen 甄子丹) has fled from the mainland to Hong Kong, where he continues to teach Wing Chun martial arts (詠春) under straightened circumstances. Conflict with other martial arts schools provides plenty of opportunity for superlative fight scenes, one of which involves what can only be described as stellar upside down stool ballet with a rickety table - both Donnie Yen and Hung Kampo prove their superlative physical grace at this point in the movie. Hung Kampo plays master Hung Chun-nam (洪震南).
After this fight scene, master Hung and master Yip become friends of sorts.
For some reason, the final part of the movie starts with a highlighting of corruption in the ranks of the Hong Kong police force as spearheaded by a real sob Britisher (police superintendent Wallace, acted with degenerate verve by Charles Mayer), which comes to a head in a match with a truly sadistic crassly vulgar boxing champ, well played by Darren Shalavi.
Master Hung is killed in the first match with Taylor (Shalavi), and subsequently avenged by master Yip who succeeds in beating the poxy bastard to a pulp. Cheers, huzzah!
Police superintendent Wallace is arrested for corruption and led off in handcuffs.
It's an entertaining and well-done bit of martial-arts fluff, more or less based on real events in the life of master Ip Man, who later ended up teaching Bruce Lee.
A very elegant and stylish film, with great performances. And also a wonderful window into the Hong Kong martial-arts environment in the early fifties, with splendid old-timey scenes and sets.
But still, the movie was somewhat disappointing. Much of the story is predictable, some of the characters are too one-dimensional to really grip, and the women have no real personalities, serving merely as props or backdrops - nice women who defer to their men, and support them in the crazy sh*t that they do.
Only one of the women comes across as in any way interesting: mrs. Jin, wife of former bandit now martial artist Jin Shanzhao, friend of master Hung. She has about three minutes of screen time.
After Yip, Jin, and a martial arts student get arrested, she comes to bail out her husband, and gives him a piece of her mind. He then wheedles her into forking over more money they can ill afford to get master Yip out too.
A strong-minded woman. A tough woman. A ferocious bitch with just eppes tons of personality.
Remarkably, I cannot remember her face at all, and I have no clue who played the role.
But good heavens, that really would be someone worth knowing.
The kind of woman who can hold her own.
And then some.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[The name Sammo comes from 三毛, a character in a Chinese comic strip. 大哥大 ("taai-go taai") means oldest of the brothers, and derives from his early work in kungfu movies.]
Hung Kampo is an unlikely martial arts actor, in that he veers towards the rotund.
His involvement in this field was primarily due to his Peking Opera training, particularly the choreography of movements on stage in martial operas. After working as a stuntman for a few years during his teens, he went to Korea and actually studied kungfu.
Since then, following in the footsteps of his grandmother (Chin Tsi-Ang 錢似鶯), he has further developed his craft and honed his quite considerable skill.
[Chin Tsi-Ang (錢似鶯): the first female movie martial artist, sixteen years old in her first movie role in 1925, aged 90 in her last, made in 2000. She died in 2007.]
He is probably the fastest fat man you'll ever see. One of his best roles, though least lauded, was in the short-lived American television series 'Martial Law'. In one early scene he proved his artistry by deftly, elegantly, wittily, beating the crap out of someone with a chalk-board eraser. Clouds of white dust everywhere!
The most recent Hung Kampo movie I've watched is Ip Man 2.
It isn't his movie, but he is one of the primary actors in it.
I suspect that it would have been a more fully developed tale had he written it, or directed it.
葉問2: 宗師傳奇 IP MAN 2
Master Yip (Ip Man, played by Donnie Yen 甄子丹) has fled from the mainland to Hong Kong, where he continues to teach Wing Chun martial arts (詠春) under straightened circumstances. Conflict with other martial arts schools provides plenty of opportunity for superlative fight scenes, one of which involves what can only be described as stellar upside down stool ballet with a rickety table - both Donnie Yen and Hung Kampo prove their superlative physical grace at this point in the movie. Hung Kampo plays master Hung Chun-nam (洪震南).
After this fight scene, master Hung and master Yip become friends of sorts.
For some reason, the final part of the movie starts with a highlighting of corruption in the ranks of the Hong Kong police force as spearheaded by a real sob Britisher (police superintendent Wallace, acted with degenerate verve by Charles Mayer), which comes to a head in a match with a truly sadistic crassly vulgar boxing champ, well played by Darren Shalavi.
Master Hung is killed in the first match with Taylor (Shalavi), and subsequently avenged by master Yip who succeeds in beating the poxy bastard to a pulp. Cheers, huzzah!
Police superintendent Wallace is arrested for corruption and led off in handcuffs.
It's an entertaining and well-done bit of martial-arts fluff, more or less based on real events in the life of master Ip Man, who later ended up teaching Bruce Lee.
A very elegant and stylish film, with great performances. And also a wonderful window into the Hong Kong martial-arts environment in the early fifties, with splendid old-timey scenes and sets.
But still, the movie was somewhat disappointing. Much of the story is predictable, some of the characters are too one-dimensional to really grip, and the women have no real personalities, serving merely as props or backdrops - nice women who defer to their men, and support them in the crazy sh*t that they do.
Only one of the women comes across as in any way interesting: mrs. Jin, wife of former bandit now martial artist Jin Shanzhao, friend of master Hung. She has about three minutes of screen time.
After Yip, Jin, and a martial arts student get arrested, she comes to bail out her husband, and gives him a piece of her mind. He then wheedles her into forking over more money they can ill afford to get master Yip out too.
A strong-minded woman. A tough woman. A ferocious bitch with just eppes tons of personality.
Remarkably, I cannot remember her face at all, and I have no clue who played the role.
But good heavens, that really would be someone worth knowing.
The kind of woman who can hold her own.
And then some.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 06, 2011
HOLLYWOOD ROAD
Hollywood Road (荷李活道) in Hong Kong is one of those places where all the visitors end up at some point. From the intersection of Aberdeen Street (鴨巴甸街) to Shing Wong Street (城皇街) it is rather shady - there's a steep embankment on your left for a large part of the way, and the street itself is rather narrow. A row of trees grows above the stone supporting wall facing the steps of Shin Hing Street (善慶街), which also has trees (down the centre), as well as shrubs and potted plants below at Gough (歌賦街).
[If you're peckish, you could go down to Kau Kee for some noodle stew - they're right on the corner of Gough Street and An Wo Lane (安和里), which descends steeply into the artiest part of HK. Kau Kee Ngau Naam (九記牛腩) is famous for beef brisket in broth (清湯牛腩) - but really, you could save them for later and stay on Hollywood Road.]
It's remarkable how leafy this part of HK is, given that this has long been one of the most densely populated parts of the island. This was where the 1894 plague epidemic started - over the next three decades more than twenty thousand people died. Crowded conditions were a major factor in the spread of the disease.
TEMPLE AND ANTIQUE DISTRICT
Once you get past the embankment there will be some shops on the left hand side, such as Chak's Co. Ltd. (永寶齋有限公司) and Jade House (中易公司), next to where Shing Wong Street changes from a vehicle-passable road downhill on the right to a very narrow walkway going up between the buildings on the left. Hollywood Street itself widens out slightly, and beyond some modern apartment buildings and offices, you will come to a old-era temple complex on the route of every tour-bus: The Man Mo Temple (文武廟) is at 124-126 Hollywood Road, right at the corner of Ladder Street (樓梯街). Immediately adjacent (and attached) is the Lit Shing Temple (列聖宫).
The Man Mo and Lit Shing complex is probably one of the more photographed sites on the tourist itinerary.
It dates from 1847, and is on the list of Hong Kong landmarks. The buildings have handsome blue-green tile roofs in the southern style.
[One of the ceremonial halls contains a statue of my ex-girlfriend's famous ancestor (and if you're Chinese, you can probably figure out her surname now, but let's continue to keep it secret), so really, you should go in just to be properly respectful.]
The multi-storeyed grammar school next door is considerably more modern, and like a number of other buildings nearby, not nearly so picturesque.
It is easy for the strolling visitor to get lost in this part of the city. If you turn left onto Ladder Street, halfway up the block at the junction of Square Street (四方街), it changes from car-accessible roadway to stairs. If you continue around the bend onto Square Street, you should know that it will make a left turn and go up hill to Bridges Street (必列者士街), Kui In Fong (居賢坊), Tai Ping Shan (太平山街). Blake Garden (卜公花園) is a little further up, past the stairs.
If you want to return to Hollywood Road, go right on Tai Ping Shan Street and make another right at East Street (Tung Street: 東街) or West Street (Sai Street: 西街), which are narrow lanes that go downhill back to Hollywood Road.
Both of these streets, like so many streets and alleys that go up the slope, become steeply stepped at some point. It's one of the signal characteristics of Hong Kong.
The area on Hollywood Road from Ladder Street down to West Street is largely antique stores, furniture, and curio shops.
Past Lok Ku Road (樂古道) the local shops become a bit more working class.
If you REALLY wanted to browse antiques and expensive crap until you dropped, it would be best to turn right and head down hill on Lok Ku. On the ground floor of Tung Sing House (東昇樓 at 18 Lok Ku Road (on your right hand side) there are art/antique galleries, and across East Street, more galleries. And further on, yet more. Down the hill, even more again.
But on the other hand, past Shell GAS, where Hollywood Road bends left, there's a restaurant.....
荔城茶餐廳. It's right near the Blake Garden Athletic Association.
You've ALWAYS wanted to follow a sweaty workout with a selection of dim sum, didn't you?
* * * * *
It's late afternoon in San Francisco now, early evening. I've been at the office for several hours. Perhaps I should stop at Stockton Street on my way home and pick up some food for my apartment-mate (the afore-mentioned ex-girlfriend; we broke up, but we stayed in the same building, there is no enmity). As always, she's scheduled far too much for a Sunday, and I doubt that she's had a chance to eat yet.
I am hungry too.
Roast Duck, I think.
I'm glad it has stopped raining.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[If you're peckish, you could go down to Kau Kee for some noodle stew - they're right on the corner of Gough Street and An Wo Lane (安和里), which descends steeply into the artiest part of HK. Kau Kee Ngau Naam (九記牛腩) is famous for beef brisket in broth (清湯牛腩) - but really, you could save them for later and stay on Hollywood Road.]
It's remarkable how leafy this part of HK is, given that this has long been one of the most densely populated parts of the island. This was where the 1894 plague epidemic started - over the next three decades more than twenty thousand people died. Crowded conditions were a major factor in the spread of the disease.
TEMPLE AND ANTIQUE DISTRICT
Once you get past the embankment there will be some shops on the left hand side, such as Chak's Co. Ltd. (永寶齋有限公司) and Jade House (中易公司), next to where Shing Wong Street changes from a vehicle-passable road downhill on the right to a very narrow walkway going up between the buildings on the left. Hollywood Street itself widens out slightly, and beyond some modern apartment buildings and offices, you will come to a old-era temple complex on the route of every tour-bus: The Man Mo Temple (文武廟) is at 124-126 Hollywood Road, right at the corner of Ladder Street (樓梯街). Immediately adjacent (and attached) is the Lit Shing Temple (列聖宫).
The Man Mo and Lit Shing complex is probably one of the more photographed sites on the tourist itinerary.
It dates from 1847, and is on the list of Hong Kong landmarks. The buildings have handsome blue-green tile roofs in the southern style.
[One of the ceremonial halls contains a statue of my ex-girlfriend's famous ancestor (and if you're Chinese, you can probably figure out her surname now, but let's continue to keep it secret), so really, you should go in just to be properly respectful.]
The multi-storeyed grammar school next door is considerably more modern, and like a number of other buildings nearby, not nearly so picturesque.
It is easy for the strolling visitor to get lost in this part of the city. If you turn left onto Ladder Street, halfway up the block at the junction of Square Street (四方街), it changes from car-accessible roadway to stairs. If you continue around the bend onto Square Street, you should know that it will make a left turn and go up hill to Bridges Street (必列者士街), Kui In Fong (居賢坊), Tai Ping Shan (太平山街). Blake Garden (卜公花園) is a little further up, past the stairs.
If you want to return to Hollywood Road, go right on Tai Ping Shan Street and make another right at East Street (Tung Street: 東街) or West Street (Sai Street: 西街), which are narrow lanes that go downhill back to Hollywood Road.
Both of these streets, like so many streets and alleys that go up the slope, become steeply stepped at some point. It's one of the signal characteristics of Hong Kong.
The area on Hollywood Road from Ladder Street down to West Street is largely antique stores, furniture, and curio shops.
Past Lok Ku Road (樂古道) the local shops become a bit more working class.
If you REALLY wanted to browse antiques and expensive crap until you dropped, it would be best to turn right and head down hill on Lok Ku. On the ground floor of Tung Sing House (東昇樓 at 18 Lok Ku Road (on your right hand side) there are art/antique galleries, and across East Street, more galleries. And further on, yet more. Down the hill, even more again.
But on the other hand, past Shell GAS, where Hollywood Road bends left, there's a restaurant.....
荔城茶餐廳. It's right near the Blake Garden Athletic Association.
You've ALWAYS wanted to follow a sweaty workout with a selection of dim sum, didn't you?
* * * * *
It's late afternoon in San Francisco now, early evening. I've been at the office for several hours. Perhaps I should stop at Stockton Street on my way home and pick up some food for my apartment-mate (the afore-mentioned ex-girlfriend; we broke up, but we stayed in the same building, there is no enmity). As always, she's scheduled far too much for a Sunday, and I doubt that she's had a chance to eat yet.
I am hungry too.
Roast Duck, I think.
I'm glad it has stopped raining.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 05, 2011
REJECTION NOTICES
Communication is a two way street. In my case there's precious little traffic in either direction.
I should've realized this much earlier. I just don't communicate very well. I'm neither good at social chit-chat, nor brilliantly skilled at imparting much other than facts and commentary.
This may seem a rather a strange assertion from a reasonably literate and educated person, someone who has blogged so long and so much, who seems to live by the written text and the controlled sentence.
But please remember, you are reading these words. You aren't hearing me speak.
Since Savage Kitten and I broke up, I have been spending several hours every weekend at the office.
She and I no longer communicate very well - I wonder if we ever did - and I find myself brittle in her presence, yet at a loss when she isn't home.
I don't like staying in the apartment, but other than the office where should I go?
Most other people aren't that enjoyable to be around. Especially not when their interests and activities baffle the crap out of me, and my own interests bore the heck out of them.
THE DISASTER OF OTHER PEOPLE'S COMPANY
Many men in San Francisco tend to be rather dull, speaking mostly of sports, occasionally of their wives or girlfriends. Other than that, they indulge in boasting, vulgarity, and crass humour.
Women in this city are very shallow creatures on the whole. They shop, they get tattoos, and they petulantly demand attention.
This is a very superficial place, whose unpleasant natives have far more attitude than is merited.
...
Actually, that's probably not it at all.
It's my fault, I just can't understand conversation.
What I rarely notice when dealing with other people is the subtext and the fabric of underlying messages. When people speak, part of the communicative process is always unstated.
Such things as contextual reality, body language, and subconscious evaluation by both parties are key elements; observation and instinctive empathetic responses are fundamental to smooth and rewarding social interaction.
I know all this, but it's still foreign to me.
My best conversations are hardly ever face to face.
That's why I'm sitting here at my desk on a Saturday evening, essentially talking to myself.
FRACTURED PARADIGMS
Two very similar activities express different aspects of sociability, namely eating together and drinking in company.
The difference between the two could well be likened to carnivores communally chomping down on the kill, versus the sometimes tense coexistence demonstrated by animals at the watering hole.
Voluntary socializing.
In a city filled with alcoholics like San Francisco, going to a bar by oneself is an easy way of being social. Drinking in a crowded establishment lets you remain semi-anonymous, you don't have to talk unless you want to. And as long as you don't misbehave or open your mouth too much, you are being a perfect member of the herd.
Just smile over your whiskey, and all we be well. You will be appreciated, and more than likely welcomed back.
Eating follows a different pattern, however.
Involuntary solitude.
Ever since I left the computer company over ten years ago I have gotten used to the idea that for many people lunch is private time and an escape from the enforced social-overstimulation of having to associate with other people in an office environment.
[Yes, I know that many of my colleagues go out to eat together on occasion, but I'm used to eating lunch at my desk by now. I am, after all, not that friendly anymore.]
It's quite different after the work-day is over. Eating dinner at a restaurant alone absolutely defines one as a reject. It's what sour old farts who live in residential hotels do, as well as people who are too eccentric to get along with civilized society.
Druggies, degenerates, and strangers, lone wolves and social lepers.
The sense of being on the outside is far worse at night.
Dinner by oneself has absolutely nothing to recommend it.
I don't know what is more irritating - the apathetic inattention given to single diners in some restaurants, versus the expedient service that tries to get you fed, paid up, and pushed out the door as quickly as possible.
Maybe it's the paucity of choices, and the aura of pariah status.
I had better go get a slice of pizza before my blood sugar plummets.
After all, man does not live by cups of tea alone.
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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I should've realized this much earlier. I just don't communicate very well. I'm neither good at social chit-chat, nor brilliantly skilled at imparting much other than facts and commentary.
This may seem a rather a strange assertion from a reasonably literate and educated person, someone who has blogged so long and so much, who seems to live by the written text and the controlled sentence.
But please remember, you are reading these words. You aren't hearing me speak.
Since Savage Kitten and I broke up, I have been spending several hours every weekend at the office.
She and I no longer communicate very well - I wonder if we ever did - and I find myself brittle in her presence, yet at a loss when she isn't home.
I don't like staying in the apartment, but other than the office where should I go?
Most other people aren't that enjoyable to be around. Especially not when their interests and activities baffle the crap out of me, and my own interests bore the heck out of them.
THE DISASTER OF OTHER PEOPLE'S COMPANY
Many men in San Francisco tend to be rather dull, speaking mostly of sports, occasionally of their wives or girlfriends. Other than that, they indulge in boasting, vulgarity, and crass humour.
Women in this city are very shallow creatures on the whole. They shop, they get tattoos, and they petulantly demand attention.
This is a very superficial place, whose unpleasant natives have far more attitude than is merited.
...
Actually, that's probably not it at all.
It's my fault, I just can't understand conversation.
What I rarely notice when dealing with other people is the subtext and the fabric of underlying messages. When people speak, part of the communicative process is always unstated.
Such things as contextual reality, body language, and subconscious evaluation by both parties are key elements; observation and instinctive empathetic responses are fundamental to smooth and rewarding social interaction.
I know all this, but it's still foreign to me.
My best conversations are hardly ever face to face.
That's why I'm sitting here at my desk on a Saturday evening, essentially talking to myself.
FRACTURED PARADIGMS
Two very similar activities express different aspects of sociability, namely eating together and drinking in company.
The difference between the two could well be likened to carnivores communally chomping down on the kill, versus the sometimes tense coexistence demonstrated by animals at the watering hole.
Voluntary socializing.
In a city filled with alcoholics like San Francisco, going to a bar by oneself is an easy way of being social. Drinking in a crowded establishment lets you remain semi-anonymous, you don't have to talk unless you want to. And as long as you don't misbehave or open your mouth too much, you are being a perfect member of the herd.
Just smile over your whiskey, and all we be well. You will be appreciated, and more than likely welcomed back.
Eating follows a different pattern, however.
Involuntary solitude.
Ever since I left the computer company over ten years ago I have gotten used to the idea that for many people lunch is private time and an escape from the enforced social-overstimulation of having to associate with other people in an office environment.
[Yes, I know that many of my colleagues go out to eat together on occasion, but I'm used to eating lunch at my desk by now. I am, after all, not that friendly anymore.]
It's quite different after the work-day is over. Eating dinner at a restaurant alone absolutely defines one as a reject. It's what sour old farts who live in residential hotels do, as well as people who are too eccentric to get along with civilized society.
Druggies, degenerates, and strangers, lone wolves and social lepers.
The sense of being on the outside is far worse at night.
Dinner by oneself has absolutely nothing to recommend it.
I don't know what is more irritating - the apathetic inattention given to single diners in some restaurants, versus the expedient service that tries to get you fed, paid up, and pushed out the door as quickly as possible.
Maybe it's the paucity of choices, and the aura of pariah status.
I had better go get a slice of pizza before my blood sugar plummets.
After all, man does not live by cups of tea alone.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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GRITS AND TOFU
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