What we need is a restaurant that advertises 'suburban food'.
And, perhaps, in German: "nothing risky".
A multitude of problems could be avoided if such a place existed.
For one thing, I wouldn't be simultaneously irritated by a German couple pointing at the hargau (蝦餃) and querulating "vas ist es doch?" while some droodge office bitch loudly exclaims about something else, "I ain't eating that sh*t!"
"In Reykyavik it is dark for eight months of the year and it's cold enough to freeze your wrists off, and there's only golly fish to eat. Administrative errors are bound to occur in enormous quantifies. Look at this - it's all a mistake!"
I was torn between wanting to tell the tourists "es is ganz nicht kosher" and suggesting to the vulgarian from Lardville that she should then go eat some other sh*t.
Confuse the innocent, and insult the narrow-minded.
It's a good rule to live by.
My sympathies actually lie with the two elderly Germans. At least they were frankly curious, and willing to try something new.
I'm much more tolerant of folks who have an adventurous approach to life.
Several years ago I had a colleague who would only eat meat and potatoes. And by meat, he meant beef. Everything else gave him heartburn.
Seeing him wolf down a half-pound burger with large fries several times a week damn' near gave me heartburn.
When he went to Europe he probably visited every McDonalds he could find.
There are 112 such establishments in London.
Far fewer of them between Calais and Rome
When he came back he said that London was a mighty fine place.
One of the other people who worked at the same company always glopped hot sauce on everything.
Not surprisingly, the two of them got along wonderfully.
They had very similar personalities.
Just minor variation in the details.
Stay away from minor variation in the details.
That way lies brain death.
Boldly go for the unidentified fried object.
Experiment.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
WHITE GUYS, ASIAN GIRLS, AND HITTING THE STREET
There are two recent comments underneath a piece I guestposted elsewhere a few months ago that, in many ways, illustrate if not illuminate the bi-racial boy-girl situation.
[That essay is on Crystal Tao's blog: LoveLoveChina. Please go read the other posts there.]
There is actually a third comment, on a Facebook page, which is also extremely enlightening – but I shall not quote it, because I would have to translate it AND the person who wrote it may not appreciate the breach of presumptive ‘privacy’.
I will however ask him to guest-post here, because what Waiman Ko said about his relationship with a white girl and how that "irked" his mother is particularly interesting and relevant, as is also the glib and stereotypic attitude of the girl’s family (“ah, at least we'll be getting free eggrolls”).
He’s now in a relationship with a Chinese girl.
And yes, there are still 'parental' issues.
SOME OF US ARE FOUR EGOTISTIC ASTERISKS, SOME OF US ARE DEMURE!
And all of us, without doubt, are something.
Decide for yourself whether you are small, medium, or large, and order the tee-shirt today.
Sorry, that was a moment.
POKGAI WROTE:
" As a cantonese guy I will tell you this, White people are much worse. Whiteguys can date as many Asian girls they like and their family will accept it, but when it comes to their daughters, their family, friends and everyone they knows will laugh at them and not approve it, asking questions like why would you date some geeky, week chinese guy. You can see it in the media and everything else, how the whiteman put up all sorts of barriers to keep their daughters away from non-white guys. White people only like our chinese girls, if you are chinese/asian guy and you live in a white society, BAD LUCK!
You are all a bunch of egoistic ****. This site is called "We love China", but it's only about chinese girls? Such bullshit! This is just one of the many proves how much better chinese girls has it in a white society compared to the chinese guys. I don't see no page called "We love China, everything about chinese guys". Until you white people can treat chinese girls and guys equally, dont talk about us and our culture!"
Quite the squawk, that. Pokgai is an angry man.
I doubt that most white parents actually have as significant a say as all that in their daughters affairs. Certainly the familial bonds between the generations are weaker in modern urban Caucasian society than among Asians.
As far as loving Chinese guys is concerned, obviously I am not the one to speak - although I do know a surprising number of people who even years after his unfortunate demise are deeply, passionately, heart-wrenchingly in love with Leslie Cheung (張國榮).
Actually, I've always felt that Chow Yunfat (周潤發) was, in many of his movies as well as in his personal style extremely worth imitating.
Quite the role model. A man's man. Macho to da max.
As well as darn foxy looking.
周潤發
[Image from Wikipedia.]
Please note that in this photo, mr. Chow has a beard somewhat similar to mine.
This is a fairly recent development that I can only applaud.
A nicely delimited beard is a good thing. I've had mine longer than he has had his.
Other than a slight facial similarity, there is unfortunately little else that we have in common. Chow Yunfat frequently played opposite Cherie Chung, I didn't. That's something I regret. It's the only reason why I would ever want to be a movie star.
LOUISA WROTE:
" It's true that Asian guys have it tougher in "Western" society because of certain stereotypes. No way to get around that. But, there are plenty of exceptions. Case in point, my Chinese uncle married a white woman. They have 3 kids and everything's pretty hunky dory with them. I have the other problem, as I find Chinese guys attractive but they have little interest in a Chinese American girl like me, going either for the "demure little Asian girl" type or white girls.
As to this site, it is called "LoveLoveChina," but its mission from the get-go was about Chinese girls, says so in the subheading. Crystal is Chinese, though most of the posters here are white, I'll give you that. But for the most part this site is an exchange of opinions and information about who they think Chinese girls are like. Is it sometimes a bit creepy, incorrect, or ill-informed? Yes. But at the same time others can jump in and offer another standpoint. You can tell that I seriously disagreed with this here post, but how else are you going to offer differing points of view if no one shares it?"
Demure little Asian girl type? Try 'feisty little spitfires'.
Yes, I suppose that there actually are 'demure little Asian girls' out there, but I'm not sure I would recognize them even if they came up and bit me in the posterior. Possibly because I tend to ignore demure people. Almost as if they're not even there.
Women without strong opinions just aren't very interesting.
Fortunately none of the women I know are like that.
And they've all got "vocabularies".
I thoroughly appreciate the contradiction between a face that can look totally innocent and a mouth that raises demons.
It's like discovering a chilipepper in your food. All of a sudden, everything is just so much brighter.
There's more to all these issues than meets the eye.
I would be keen to find out what my readers think.
Please comment.
NOTE: 'Pokgai' is a rather amusing Cantonese expression......
Either 攴街, meaning that an effigy of the person so addressed would be glued to the pavement and whacked with a shoe till it ripped to shreds (thus symbolically doing the same to the person), OR 仆街, meaning to fall (die) on the street and never receive a decent burial.
It's a curse, an expression of anger, and a general swear word.
In either case, as applied to a person it implies disgust and baseness.
Odd chutzpah to use it as a personal handle.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[That essay is on Crystal Tao's blog: LoveLoveChina. Please go read the other posts there.]
There is actually a third comment, on a Facebook page, which is also extremely enlightening – but I shall not quote it, because I would have to translate it AND the person who wrote it may not appreciate the breach of presumptive ‘privacy’.
I will however ask him to guest-post here, because what Waiman Ko said about his relationship with a white girl and how that "irked" his mother is particularly interesting and relevant, as is also the glib and stereotypic attitude of the girl’s family (“ah, at least we'll be getting free eggrolls”).
He’s now in a relationship with a Chinese girl.
And yes, there are still 'parental' issues.
SOME OF US ARE FOUR EGOTISTIC ASTERISKS, SOME OF US ARE DEMURE!
And all of us, without doubt, are something.
Decide for yourself whether you are small, medium, or large, and order the tee-shirt today.
Sorry, that was a moment.
POKGAI WROTE:
" As a cantonese guy I will tell you this, White people are much worse. Whiteguys can date as many Asian girls they like and their family will accept it, but when it comes to their daughters, their family, friends and everyone they knows will laugh at them and not approve it, asking questions like why would you date some geeky, week chinese guy. You can see it in the media and everything else, how the whiteman put up all sorts of barriers to keep their daughters away from non-white guys. White people only like our chinese girls, if you are chinese/asian guy and you live in a white society, BAD LUCK!
You are all a bunch of egoistic ****. This site is called "We love China", but it's only about chinese girls? Such bullshit! This is just one of the many proves how much better chinese girls has it in a white society compared to the chinese guys. I don't see no page called "We love China, everything about chinese guys". Until you white people can treat chinese girls and guys equally, dont talk about us and our culture!"
Quite the squawk, that. Pokgai is an angry man.
I doubt that most white parents actually have as significant a say as all that in their daughters affairs. Certainly the familial bonds between the generations are weaker in modern urban Caucasian society than among Asians.
As far as loving Chinese guys is concerned, obviously I am not the one to speak - although I do know a surprising number of people who even years after his unfortunate demise are deeply, passionately, heart-wrenchingly in love with Leslie Cheung (張國榮).
Actually, I've always felt that Chow Yunfat (周潤發) was, in many of his movies as well as in his personal style extremely worth imitating.
Quite the role model. A man's man. Macho to da max.
As well as darn foxy looking.
周潤發
[Image from Wikipedia.]Please note that in this photo, mr. Chow has a beard somewhat similar to mine.
This is a fairly recent development that I can only applaud.
A nicely delimited beard is a good thing. I've had mine longer than he has had his.
Other than a slight facial similarity, there is unfortunately little else that we have in common. Chow Yunfat frequently played opposite Cherie Chung, I didn't. That's something I regret. It's the only reason why I would ever want to be a movie star.
LOUISA WROTE:
" It's true that Asian guys have it tougher in "Western" society because of certain stereotypes. No way to get around that. But, there are plenty of exceptions. Case in point, my Chinese uncle married a white woman. They have 3 kids and everything's pretty hunky dory with them. I have the other problem, as I find Chinese guys attractive but they have little interest in a Chinese American girl like me, going either for the "demure little Asian girl" type or white girls.
As to this site, it is called "LoveLoveChina," but its mission from the get-go was about Chinese girls, says so in the subheading. Crystal is Chinese, though most of the posters here are white, I'll give you that. But for the most part this site is an exchange of opinions and information about who they think Chinese girls are like. Is it sometimes a bit creepy, incorrect, or ill-informed? Yes. But at the same time others can jump in and offer another standpoint. You can tell that I seriously disagreed with this here post, but how else are you going to offer differing points of view if no one shares it?"
Demure little Asian girl type? Try 'feisty little spitfires'.
Yes, I suppose that there actually are 'demure little Asian girls' out there, but I'm not sure I would recognize them even if they came up and bit me in the posterior. Possibly because I tend to ignore demure people. Almost as if they're not even there.
Women without strong opinions just aren't very interesting.
Fortunately none of the women I know are like that.
And they've all got "vocabularies".
I thoroughly appreciate the contradiction between a face that can look totally innocent and a mouth that raises demons.
It's like discovering a chilipepper in your food. All of a sudden, everything is just so much brighter.
There's more to all these issues than meets the eye.
I would be keen to find out what my readers think.
Please comment.
NOTE: 'Pokgai' is a rather amusing Cantonese expression......
Either 攴街, meaning that an effigy of the person so addressed would be glued to the pavement and whacked with a shoe till it ripped to shreds (thus symbolically doing the same to the person), OR 仆街, meaning to fall (die) on the street and never receive a decent burial.
It's a curse, an expression of anger, and a general swear word.
In either case, as applied to a person it implies disgust and baseness.
Odd chutzpah to use it as a personal handle.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, July 18, 2011
FUN WITH FEMININE HYGIENE
Having lived with the fairer sex for most of my life, I am familiar with products that many men prefer not to even think about.
Items that males instinctively avoid, which are too horrible to contemplate.
Most men are too......, errrm....., fastidious.
I accept certain womanly things as natural, not in the slightest "icky" or "gross".
After all, I am not a juvenile, and there is naught about the female of the species that is inherently off-putting.
Well, other than their shopping frenzies.
Women do NOT have cooties.
They do, however, have sanitary pads.
One of my friends, Ralph, during the early years of his marriage was averse to purchasing any feminine hygiene products for his wife. Sure, he would purchase the heavy stuff. The bulk items. Five gallon containers of Coca Cola and Draino. Family-sized bales of toilet paper. Three ply, unscented, 188 rolls. No problem.
He would even gloat about his family's prodigious appetite, and monumental output.
Remarkable, for only two people - the store probably assumed he was shopping for a tribe.
Ralph's wife had to go to the store herself to buy pads.
After he and his wife bought their own home, he discovered the benefit, nay, the blessing even, of sanitary pads.
See, there was a crack in the pipe that fed water into the heater. A slow leak, that deposited drop by drop, till after two or three days there would be a pool a few inches long on the floor boards, starting to smell funky. He tried to fix it, but lacking much technical expertise, nothing worked. So at some point he "borrowed" a sanitary pad from the pack in the bathroom cabinet.
Brilliant!
It just needed replacing every four or five days, and it solved all problems.
No wet spot, no odour, no stain. Perfect fit.
Ralph considered himself a right genius.
In order that his wife would not become aware of the steady depletion of her pad hoard, Ralph took it upon himself to purchase an extra box now and then. Exact same brand, exact same size.
His wife probably did indeed notice - most women are keen counters of their pads, tampons, and other such - but she didn't say anything.
She may have thought he was growing up.
That, too, is a blessing.
Even if it involves pads.
BIG AS A BUCKET
It wasn't until the leak got worse that trouble started. Two pads at a time. Sometimes twice a week.
Ralph finally uttered what are possibly the most dangerous words in any marriage.
"Honey, shouldn't you be using maxi-pads?"
At the very moment he realized the can of worms he was potentially opening up, his wife snapped: "What!?! You now think it's big as a bucket?!?"
There are many directions a conversation can go from there. None of them useful, or flattering in any way to either party.
If pursued, that is a conversational train which will go off a cliff and wreck everything with it
With despair in his eyes, mute and frantic, he dragged her into the utility room and silently pointed out the pads. She realized what he needed the things for, and forgave him the clumsiness of his request.
But she insisted that he buy his own maxi-pads.
So he did.
At the store, the manager (a middle-aged woman) saw that he wasn't buying the same brand anymore and humorously remarked "different size, huh, I guess then these are for you?"
"Well actually, yes they are."
The manager lost it when, in parting, he said "it's big as a bucket."
--- --- --- --- ---
And on that note, I propose that women's sanitary requisites should be sold at the hardware store. Not only would most men have NO problem purchasing or even contemplating such things if they were available in the plumbing department, but they'd likely come up with new and creative uses for them. Absorbent, and soft. Plug a leak, or slip one under furniture legs. Buffer a handle, or buff a cabinet. Use one to apply woodstain, or oil a gasket.
This will inevitably lead to greater peace and harmony in this world.
Perhaps unfortunately, women are also 'creative'.
They too can figure out new uses for familiar things.
So it's a darn good thing that duct tape ain't available in the sanitary aisle.
The day that happens, the world ends.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Items that males instinctively avoid, which are too horrible to contemplate.
Most men are too......, errrm....., fastidious.
I accept certain womanly things as natural, not in the slightest "icky" or "gross".
After all, I am not a juvenile, and there is naught about the female of the species that is inherently off-putting.
Well, other than their shopping frenzies.
Women do NOT have cooties.
They do, however, have sanitary pads.
One of my friends, Ralph, during the early years of his marriage was averse to purchasing any feminine hygiene products for his wife. Sure, he would purchase the heavy stuff. The bulk items. Five gallon containers of Coca Cola and Draino. Family-sized bales of toilet paper. Three ply, unscented, 188 rolls. No problem.
He would even gloat about his family's prodigious appetite, and monumental output.
Remarkable, for only two people - the store probably assumed he was shopping for a tribe.
Ralph's wife had to go to the store herself to buy pads.
After he and his wife bought their own home, he discovered the benefit, nay, the blessing even, of sanitary pads.
See, there was a crack in the pipe that fed water into the heater. A slow leak, that deposited drop by drop, till after two or three days there would be a pool a few inches long on the floor boards, starting to smell funky. He tried to fix it, but lacking much technical expertise, nothing worked. So at some point he "borrowed" a sanitary pad from the pack in the bathroom cabinet.
Brilliant!
It just needed replacing every four or five days, and it solved all problems.
No wet spot, no odour, no stain. Perfect fit.
Ralph considered himself a right genius.
In order that his wife would not become aware of the steady depletion of her pad hoard, Ralph took it upon himself to purchase an extra box now and then. Exact same brand, exact same size.
His wife probably did indeed notice - most women are keen counters of their pads, tampons, and other such - but she didn't say anything.
She may have thought he was growing up.
That, too, is a blessing.
Even if it involves pads.
BIG AS A BUCKET
It wasn't until the leak got worse that trouble started. Two pads at a time. Sometimes twice a week.
Ralph finally uttered what are possibly the most dangerous words in any marriage.
"Honey, shouldn't you be using maxi-pads?"
At the very moment he realized the can of worms he was potentially opening up, his wife snapped: "What!?! You now think it's big as a bucket?!?"
There are many directions a conversation can go from there. None of them useful, or flattering in any way to either party.
If pursued, that is a conversational train which will go off a cliff and wreck everything with it
With despair in his eyes, mute and frantic, he dragged her into the utility room and silently pointed out the pads. She realized what he needed the things for, and forgave him the clumsiness of his request.
But she insisted that he buy his own maxi-pads.
So he did.
At the store, the manager (a middle-aged woman) saw that he wasn't buying the same brand anymore and humorously remarked "different size, huh, I guess then these are for you?"
"Well actually, yes they are."
The manager lost it when, in parting, he said "it's big as a bucket."
--- --- --- --- ---
And on that note, I propose that women's sanitary requisites should be sold at the hardware store. Not only would most men have NO problem purchasing or even contemplating such things if they were available in the plumbing department, but they'd likely come up with new and creative uses for them. Absorbent, and soft. Plug a leak, or slip one under furniture legs. Buffer a handle, or buff a cabinet. Use one to apply woodstain, or oil a gasket.
This will inevitably lead to greater peace and harmony in this world.
Perhaps unfortunately, women are also 'creative'.
They too can figure out new uses for familiar things.
So it's a darn good thing that duct tape ain't available in the sanitary aisle.
The day that happens, the world ends.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, July 17, 2011
YUMMY DIM SUM & FAST FOOD ON STOCKTON STREET - WHY HELLO, MISS 'NG!
I cannot understand how I didn't discover the place sooner. It's clean, the staff are capable, courteous, and friendly. And the food is excellent.
It's a narrow place, but it feels larger because of the high ceiling.
There are six tables that seat four along the wall facing the counter.
金華點心快餐
First time I went there I had something simple - fresh cilantro steamed rice sheet (香茜腸粉 heung sai cheung fan) and a chicken bun (雞飽 gai bao).
Plus coffee.
Unlike many places in Chinatown, the coffee was actually drinkable at that time of day. Chinatown coffee always comes out of a large cafeteria machine that is filled and turned on around seven in the morning, and by lunch time what's left is usually dark, bitter, pungent.
This was much better.
I drank the whole cup.
金華點心快餐YUMMY DIM SUM & FAST FOOD, LLC.
930 Stockton Street, San Francisco, CA 94108.
Telephone:
(415) 308-3819
(415) 828-0856
(415) 986-2783
The steamed rice sheet was mild and very fresh, which let the fragrance of the cilantro (芫荽葉 yuen seui yiep, AKA 香茜 heung sai) come through. There is a subtle citrusy hint, almost of oranges, to fresh cilantro. Delightful.
The filling in the chicken bun was surprising - it included noticeable water chestnut chunks that provided an endearing crunchiness.
I would've wished for more meat, but it was nevertheless quite good.
At that time the only other steamed rice sheet they had was beef-shred rice sheet (牛肉絲腸粉 ngau yiuk see cheung fan).
I have an antipathy towards beef. But it too looked exceedingly fresh.
More than many other places, their cheung fan are objects of beauty.
Naturally it all sells fast once it's brought from the back.
They have most of the usual dimsummy stuff: siu mai (燒賣), haahm sui gok (咸水角), ha gau (蝦餃, and what looked like totally LOVELY jin-deui (煎堆)! Plus a respectable selection of baked snacky things and buns.
Additionally, they offer eat there or take-out 糯米雞 (lo mai kai: glutinous rice and chicken steamed in a lotus leaf), plus a reasonable selection of steamed dumplings (蒸餃 tsing gau), and steamed rice combinations (蒸飯 tsing fan) as well.
One dish I recommend is the 豆豉排骨蒸飯 (dau si pai gwat tsing fan - black bean sauce spare rib steamed rice).
The noise from the kitchen is lively in a professional way, a veritable hive of activity. Regularly a bright-eyed young man would come flying out with a new offering to add to the counter, or an auntie would hurry back to grab something.
Busy lah, ho sang yi!
羊肉腐竹煲
Among the take-out foods mentioned on the wall, the 炆羊肉腐竹 (man yeung-yiuk fu-dzuk: slow-cooked lamb with tofu skin) looks particularly intriguing.
Fu-dzuk (腐竹 "tofu bamboo") is one of those things you either totally love or maybe not-quite love. It doesn't have much flavour of its own, but absorbs sauces and juices most marvelously, and has an inimitable texture. Lamb is a particularly apt pairing for tofu skin.
As is ox tail, by the way.
The word 'man' (炆) for combined ingredients slow-cooked together is a Cantonese culinary term.
NOTE: This post came about because one of my friends in Holland (Vera Puichi NG) on her Facebook page asked if anyone wanted to go drink tea (飲茶 'yam cha' – enjoy snacks at a teahouse, usually with friends).
By which, in her case, she purely meant eating jook (粥) somewhere in R'dam. She particularly likes jook.
So whatever the rest of the crowd was having would be fine, totally fine, really, as long as she could have jook. She wanted company while eating her jook.
Sorry, Chi-djeh, I didn't bother checking to see if they had jook.
They probably do.
But ordering what looks very fresh means IMMEDIATE gratification.
我食得好滿意嘅喇! 你呢?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It's a narrow place, but it feels larger because of the high ceiling.
There are six tables that seat four along the wall facing the counter.
金華點心快餐
First time I went there I had something simple - fresh cilantro steamed rice sheet (香茜腸粉 heung sai cheung fan) and a chicken bun (雞飽 gai bao).
Plus coffee.
Unlike many places in Chinatown, the coffee was actually drinkable at that time of day. Chinatown coffee always comes out of a large cafeteria machine that is filled and turned on around seven in the morning, and by lunch time what's left is usually dark, bitter, pungent.
This was much better.
I drank the whole cup.
金華點心快餐YUMMY DIM SUM & FAST FOOD, LLC.
930 Stockton Street, San Francisco, CA 94108.
Telephone:
(415) 308-3819
(415) 828-0856
(415) 986-2783
The steamed rice sheet was mild and very fresh, which let the fragrance of the cilantro (芫荽葉 yuen seui yiep, AKA 香茜 heung sai) come through. There is a subtle citrusy hint, almost of oranges, to fresh cilantro. Delightful.
The filling in the chicken bun was surprising - it included noticeable water chestnut chunks that provided an endearing crunchiness.
I would've wished for more meat, but it was nevertheless quite good.
At that time the only other steamed rice sheet they had was beef-shred rice sheet (牛肉絲腸粉 ngau yiuk see cheung fan).
I have an antipathy towards beef. But it too looked exceedingly fresh.
More than many other places, their cheung fan are objects of beauty.
Naturally it all sells fast once it's brought from the back.
They have most of the usual dimsummy stuff: siu mai (燒賣), haahm sui gok (咸水角), ha gau (蝦餃, and what looked like totally LOVELY jin-deui (煎堆)! Plus a respectable selection of baked snacky things and buns.
Additionally, they offer eat there or take-out 糯米雞 (lo mai kai: glutinous rice and chicken steamed in a lotus leaf), plus a reasonable selection of steamed dumplings (蒸餃 tsing gau), and steamed rice combinations (蒸飯 tsing fan) as well.
One dish I recommend is the 豆豉排骨蒸飯 (dau si pai gwat tsing fan - black bean sauce spare rib steamed rice).
The noise from the kitchen is lively in a professional way, a veritable hive of activity. Regularly a bright-eyed young man would come flying out with a new offering to add to the counter, or an auntie would hurry back to grab something.
Busy lah, ho sang yi!
羊肉腐竹煲
Among the take-out foods mentioned on the wall, the 炆羊肉腐竹 (man yeung-yiuk fu-dzuk: slow-cooked lamb with tofu skin) looks particularly intriguing.
Fu-dzuk (腐竹 "tofu bamboo") is one of those things you either totally love or maybe not-quite love. It doesn't have much flavour of its own, but absorbs sauces and juices most marvelously, and has an inimitable texture. Lamb is a particularly apt pairing for tofu skin.
As is ox tail, by the way.
The word 'man' (炆) for combined ingredients slow-cooked together is a Cantonese culinary term.
NOTE: This post came about because one of my friends in Holland (Vera Puichi NG) on her Facebook page asked if anyone wanted to go drink tea (飲茶 'yam cha' – enjoy snacks at a teahouse, usually with friends).
By which, in her case, she purely meant eating jook (粥) somewhere in R'dam. She particularly likes jook.
So whatever the rest of the crowd was having would be fine, totally fine, really, as long as she could have jook. She wanted company while eating her jook.
Sorry, Chi-djeh, I didn't bother checking to see if they had jook.
They probably do.
But ordering what looks very fresh means IMMEDIATE gratification.
我食得好滿意嘅喇! 你呢?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PONCING, PORCELAIN, AND PASTES - CULTIVATING SELF-RESTRAINT, ALBEIT UNWILLINGLY
Okay, I’ll admit it. It’s immensely frustrating living with a lovely woman who is not sharing my bed. Fortunately, despite all my worst instincts, I am capable of remaining a complete gentleman. And her Aspergers is too great to notice any appreciative glances, unless I were to actually say something along the lines of “miss, you look good enough to eat”.
Which I’m not going to do. It's not my place to do so.
Not anymore.
That’s one of the reasons I flee to the office on weekends.
The other one is that I need to be alone, now more so than before.
Without companionship and affection, I require more time to myself.
Yeah, Savage Kitten and I still get along fine. Much better now than a few months ago. And definitely better than just after we broke up.
But given that I cannot look at her with the spark that used to be in my eyes.........
I like having her as a roommate, though. She’s a predictable and reliable quantity.
And after two decades, we’re used to each other’s weird habits (I don’t have any weird habits, but for the sake of balance and fairness, let us rhetorically pretend that I do).
In the past, I would happily ponce around the apartment in my birthday suit in the time between first cup of coffee and going out.
Especially after a bath. Gotta let the skin air a bit, don’t you know.
Without someone glancing appreciatively at my fine manly figure, however, it’s not nearly so much fun.
Now the only time I ponce is when she’s not around.
And no one glances at all.
I ponce really well! Did you know that?
In the year since the break-up, my bed has gotten a bit cluttered.
I no longer need to make room for another person, so in consequence I’ve kind of let it slide.
Besides the various stuffed animals (“roomies”), there are also various cookbooks, a couple of reference books, a world map, and a few binders with internet research printouts (ethnology, foreign politics, porcelain glazes, etc.).
When you sleep alone, you tend to wake up in the middle of the night. Which is as good a time to read about mustard-yellow (three parts lead-antimonate and one part powdered quartz), yun glazes, chocolate ganache, or pickled pork sausages from Chiang Mai as any.
Those rare times when I woke up in the middle of the night while still in a loving relationship, I would also ponce.
Sometimes naked, sometimes clothed. Not ALL poncing requires nudity!
But like with interpretive dance, it helps.
Look, a naked mime!
PONCE! PONCE! PONCE!
At some point, I may lose it entirely. I’ll walk up to a complete stranger and proposition her: “miss, can I tell you about mustard-yellow (three parts lead-antimonate and one part powdered quartz), yun glazes, chocolate ganache, or pickled pork sausages from Chiang Mai?”
If she expresses an interest in ANY of those subjects – especially chocolate ganache, or other fine confectionary subjects – she’s hooked.
More than likely, however, she’ll promptly call the cops on her cell-phone.
“Hello? I wish to report a pervert. He’s at the corner of Stockton and Clay Streets. He’s there RIGHT NOW!
He propositioned me with mustard-yellow (three parts lead-antimonate and one part powdered quartz), yun glazes, chocolate ganache, and pickled pork sausages from Chiang Mai! Yes, TWO glazes, a dubious pork product, and GANACHE!
He even threatened to feed me Linzer Torte! Waaaah!”
No one wants to see a sweet young girl crying in terror.
The humanity! The trauma! The multi-syllabic vocabulary!
Fortunately, despite all my worst instincts, I am still capable of remaining a complete gentleman.
Never mind their tempting innocence, most little ladies I am likely to fall for are incapable of feeling attracted to a scholarly-looking middle-aged studmuffin with an intense affection for comestibles and vitrified products.
No matter how trim and gleamy-eyed.
I know that.
That’s another reason I flee to the office on weekends.
I can read all I want about celadons, curry paste, jade discs, country pâtés, brushwashers, lekvar, sancai overglaze techniques, nước mắm, underglaze blue, Chicken Kiev, Kangxi and Qianlong periods, millefeuille, millefiori, ragoût, and Yixing teapots.
Without interruption, frustration, or disquiet of any kind.
That's what I'm doing right now!
If I were a pervert, my hands would shake and sweat would pour out.
But I am a gentleman.
And rather lonely.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which I’m not going to do. It's not my place to do so.
Not anymore.
That’s one of the reasons I flee to the office on weekends.
The other one is that I need to be alone, now more so than before.
Without companionship and affection, I require more time to myself.
Yeah, Savage Kitten and I still get along fine. Much better now than a few months ago. And definitely better than just after we broke up.
But given that I cannot look at her with the spark that used to be in my eyes.........
I like having her as a roommate, though. She’s a predictable and reliable quantity.
And after two decades, we’re used to each other’s weird habits (I don’t have any weird habits, but for the sake of balance and fairness, let us rhetorically pretend that I do).
In the past, I would happily ponce around the apartment in my birthday suit in the time between first cup of coffee and going out.
Especially after a bath. Gotta let the skin air a bit, don’t you know.
Without someone glancing appreciatively at my fine manly figure, however, it’s not nearly so much fun.
Now the only time I ponce is when she’s not around.
And no one glances at all.
I ponce really well! Did you know that?
In the year since the break-up, my bed has gotten a bit cluttered.
I no longer need to make room for another person, so in consequence I’ve kind of let it slide.
Besides the various stuffed animals (“roomies”), there are also various cookbooks, a couple of reference books, a world map, and a few binders with internet research printouts (ethnology, foreign politics, porcelain glazes, etc.).
When you sleep alone, you tend to wake up in the middle of the night. Which is as good a time to read about mustard-yellow (three parts lead-antimonate and one part powdered quartz), yun glazes, chocolate ganache, or pickled pork sausages from Chiang Mai as any.
Those rare times when I woke up in the middle of the night while still in a loving relationship, I would also ponce.
Sometimes naked, sometimes clothed. Not ALL poncing requires nudity!
But like with interpretive dance, it helps.
Look, a naked mime!
PONCE! PONCE! PONCE!
At some point, I may lose it entirely. I’ll walk up to a complete stranger and proposition her: “miss, can I tell you about mustard-yellow (three parts lead-antimonate and one part powdered quartz), yun glazes, chocolate ganache, or pickled pork sausages from Chiang Mai?”
If she expresses an interest in ANY of those subjects – especially chocolate ganache, or other fine confectionary subjects – she’s hooked.
More than likely, however, she’ll promptly call the cops on her cell-phone.
“Hello? I wish to report a pervert. He’s at the corner of Stockton and Clay Streets. He’s there RIGHT NOW!
He propositioned me with mustard-yellow (three parts lead-antimonate and one part powdered quartz), yun glazes, chocolate ganache, and pickled pork sausages from Chiang Mai! Yes, TWO glazes, a dubious pork product, and GANACHE!
He even threatened to feed me Linzer Torte! Waaaah!”
No one wants to see a sweet young girl crying in terror.
The humanity! The trauma! The multi-syllabic vocabulary!
Fortunately, despite all my worst instincts, I am still capable of remaining a complete gentleman.
Never mind their tempting innocence, most little ladies I am likely to fall for are incapable of feeling attracted to a scholarly-looking middle-aged studmuffin with an intense affection for comestibles and vitrified products.
No matter how trim and gleamy-eyed.
I know that.
That’s another reason I flee to the office on weekends.
I can read all I want about celadons, curry paste, jade discs, country pâtés, brushwashers, lekvar, sancai overglaze techniques, nước mắm, underglaze blue, Chicken Kiev, Kangxi and Qianlong periods, millefeuille, millefiori, ragoût, and Yixing teapots.
Without interruption, frustration, or disquiet of any kind.
That's what I'm doing right now!
If I were a pervert, my hands would shake and sweat would pour out.
But I am a gentleman.
And rather lonely.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, July 16, 2011
HOT WATER MONKEY
Elsewhere people wear light clothing in summer. Their world is indolent; velvet-fingered zephyrs stroke the skin and late blossoms peek from dark hollows among the trees. Elsewhere. Not here.
In San Francisco the high temperatures across the bay and further inland pull in chill winds and fog, and in this city we cluster shivering under our blankies, bitterly mumbling about the cold.
We too want to wear thin loose clothing, like other people! Really we do! But we also want to ward off hypothermia.
So we have another hot beverage (Mmmmm, cocoa!), and scurry from building to building. We are desperate to keep warm.
At times I miss the heat.
In the Netherlands during June and July it was rarely cold, and even precipitation felt warm.
Outside of town, along the Luikerweg, there was a paddock with trees at one end where I once sheltered from the rain – a fence underneath the branches separated me from the horses on the other side. One horse was not bothered by the weather and calmly grazed out in the wet wet grass, his back and haunches glistening, silky, moist.
When you’re not wearing any clothes you don’t worry about getting soaked, especially if once the rain has passed the warmth will rapidly dry you off.
In South-East Asia, where the wind from the sea brought in sudden downpours, one day I saw a small ape sheltering among the banana trees.
I doubt that it had been raiding the fruit when caught in the cloudburst – contrary to what you think, gibbons actually prefer figs – but it had probably scurried underneath the bananas because the immense leaves made perfect umbrellas. Once the monkey noticed me looking at him, he reached up with both hands to pull a leaf down in front and hid himself.
I could see the dark little fingers clutching at either edge, though.
I knew he was there.
He stayed hidden till after the rain stopped. A few minutes later, with everything nearly dry again, the leaf veered upwards, and the little fellow was gone.
HYLOBATES AND FICUS, MACACA AND MUSA
Gibbons (hylobates) prefer the rain forest over the vicinity of humans, being both averse to the company of people and highly territorial, especially after a pair has bonded. But in outlying areas it is not unusual to hear distant hooting between the male and female early in the day. They eat wild fruits, of which the most common in the jungles are various types of figs. Being quick, long-armed and extremely agile, gibbons will spend most of their lives in the trees away from the forest floor - their legs are rather short and squat, and it is rare to see them 'walking'.
The monkey one is most likely to encounter near villages is the macaque (macaca spp), which sometimes raids crops and will stick almost anything in its mouth. Macaques are far more social than gibbons, forming groups of several dozen individuals that interact hierarchically.
Where the gibbon always seems to look worried and anxious, the macaque's face shows a wider range of emotions, including anger, defiance, rebelliousness, avid interest, or even utter boredom. Gibbons have more fur, macaques less.
And macaques yell, coo, and cackle, rather than hoot or howl.
One other distinction between gibbons and macaques is worth noting: while both of these types of monkey don't like being rained upon, gibbons also avoid streams and pools, whereas macaques prefer to live near water and will occasionally take a swim.
In Japan there's even a species of macaque that luxuriates in hot springs.
A BRIGHT RED MAN
Heat and moisture go together. Nobody in their right mind visits the old swimming hole in winter, no glistening naked bodies gambol in creeks when snow is falling. In San Francisco there are no swimming holes, but even if there were, we would not use them. Water may be beautiful to look at, but its only fun when its warm.
This morning, after my roommate left the apartment, I spent over two hours soaking myself before heading to the office.
Nice hot water - playing in the bath is bliss.
Occasionally I extended a leg out of the tub to cool off and twiddled my toes.
Weekends are for laziness, warmth, nudity.
And for twiddling your toes.
Pink and clean.
If this place had a bath, I would spend far more time at work.
Splashing around at night after everybody had left.
I'd even keep bars of soap in my cubicle.
Along with a BIG bowl of fruit.
No figs or bananas, though.
Peaches, plums, pears.
Sweet, fragrant.
Juicy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In San Francisco the high temperatures across the bay and further inland pull in chill winds and fog, and in this city we cluster shivering under our blankies, bitterly mumbling about the cold.
We too want to wear thin loose clothing, like other people! Really we do! But we also want to ward off hypothermia.
So we have another hot beverage (Mmmmm, cocoa!), and scurry from building to building. We are desperate to keep warm.
At times I miss the heat.
In the Netherlands during June and July it was rarely cold, and even precipitation felt warm.
Outside of town, along the Luikerweg, there was a paddock with trees at one end where I once sheltered from the rain – a fence underneath the branches separated me from the horses on the other side. One horse was not bothered by the weather and calmly grazed out in the wet wet grass, his back and haunches glistening, silky, moist.
When you’re not wearing any clothes you don’t worry about getting soaked, especially if once the rain has passed the warmth will rapidly dry you off.
In South-East Asia, where the wind from the sea brought in sudden downpours, one day I saw a small ape sheltering among the banana trees.
I doubt that it had been raiding the fruit when caught in the cloudburst – contrary to what you think, gibbons actually prefer figs – but it had probably scurried underneath the bananas because the immense leaves made perfect umbrellas. Once the monkey noticed me looking at him, he reached up with both hands to pull a leaf down in front and hid himself.
I could see the dark little fingers clutching at either edge, though.
I knew he was there.
He stayed hidden till after the rain stopped. A few minutes later, with everything nearly dry again, the leaf veered upwards, and the little fellow was gone.
HYLOBATES AND FICUS, MACACA AND MUSA
Gibbons (hylobates) prefer the rain forest over the vicinity of humans, being both averse to the company of people and highly territorial, especially after a pair has bonded. But in outlying areas it is not unusual to hear distant hooting between the male and female early in the day. They eat wild fruits, of which the most common in the jungles are various types of figs. Being quick, long-armed and extremely agile, gibbons will spend most of their lives in the trees away from the forest floor - their legs are rather short and squat, and it is rare to see them 'walking'.
The monkey one is most likely to encounter near villages is the macaque (macaca spp), which sometimes raids crops and will stick almost anything in its mouth. Macaques are far more social than gibbons, forming groups of several dozen individuals that interact hierarchically.
Where the gibbon always seems to look worried and anxious, the macaque's face shows a wider range of emotions, including anger, defiance, rebelliousness, avid interest, or even utter boredom. Gibbons have more fur, macaques less.
And macaques yell, coo, and cackle, rather than hoot or howl.
One other distinction between gibbons and macaques is worth noting: while both of these types of monkey don't like being rained upon, gibbons also avoid streams and pools, whereas macaques prefer to live near water and will occasionally take a swim.
In Japan there's even a species of macaque that luxuriates in hot springs.
A BRIGHT RED MAN
Heat and moisture go together. Nobody in their right mind visits the old swimming hole in winter, no glistening naked bodies gambol in creeks when snow is falling. In San Francisco there are no swimming holes, but even if there were, we would not use them. Water may be beautiful to look at, but its only fun when its warm.
This morning, after my roommate left the apartment, I spent over two hours soaking myself before heading to the office.
Nice hot water - playing in the bath is bliss.
Occasionally I extended a leg out of the tub to cool off and twiddled my toes.
Weekends are for laziness, warmth, nudity.
And for twiddling your toes.
Pink and clean.
If this place had a bath, I would spend far more time at work.
Splashing around at night after everybody had left.
I'd even keep bars of soap in my cubicle.
Along with a BIG bowl of fruit.
No figs or bananas, though.
Peaches, plums, pears.
Sweet, fragrant.
Juicy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, July 15, 2011
ÉCLAIRS! AND WARM AS TOAST TOO!
This Sunday I shall reward myself. I shall lie in bed feasting on a nice strong cup of coffee and a luscious éclair. Because this Sunday marks the 25th San Francisco Aids Walk.
Sign-in is at nine in the morning.
Which is approximately when I shall be getting out of bed, briefly, to fix myself that cup of nice strong coffee.
Obviously, I do NOT intend to be there.
Instead, I've paid a bunch of other people to be there for me.
Five of them, in fact.
So while they stumble around in the fog and mist of a summer morning out in Golden Gate Park, I shall be warmly ensconced in my bed, poofy comforter over my lower half, a thick coffee table book of New-Yorker cartoons spread open on my thighs, with a hot caffeinated beverage of my choice and a nice CREAMY CUSTARDY ÉCLAIR!
I am going to be sooooooo comfortable!
But I'll think about them now and then.
In between munching, sips, and giggles.
AH, BLISS!
The biggest question in my self-indulgent mind, for at least the next thirty hours, is "where am I going to find the éclair?"
In prior years, if I had wanted an éclair on Aids Walk Sunday, that would not have been a problem. Just pop over the hill along Bush Street the previous day. Unfortunately Pâtisserie De Langhe at 1890 Fillmore Street no longer exists. A very great pity, as their éclairs were purely scrumptious.
So were their Napoleons, Swedish Princess Cakes......
De Langhe was a national treasure.
I do not know where to get my good-morning pastries now.
It is a very great loss.
I am BEREFT, as I'm sure you understand.
I've NEVER gotten up early on Aids Walk Sunday. It always seemed so much more convenient to sponsor someone else to hike through the park at that hour. To that end, not only would I pay my roommate to do the heavy walking, I even tried to get others to contribute, including my coworkers at the Indian restaurant. The first year I tried, I got seven dollars out of them. That's a TOTAL of seven dollars, out of five different sub-continentals.
The next year, four dollars and fifty cents.
As one of them explained to me, "Indians don't get AIDS, only gay Americans get it - we don't DO such things".
Apparently, they do.
Pointing out to them that the human immunodeficiency virus did not discriminate, even if they themselves did, did not cut any mustard.
Nearly twenty skinflinty people worked at the restaurant.
First year: seven dollars. Second year: less than five.
One of them asked me how much I was contributing, then pretty darn-near called me a fool and a patsy once he found out how much it was.
I'm afraid he was overlooking the logical benefit of the exercise.
Contributing generously to a good cause gives you the right, the pleasant duty even, of staying nice and toasty warm on a cold San Francisco summer morning. Other people have to get up at the crack of dawn, when it is still dark and moist, and gird their loins for the task ahead. But not you. You have expended funds NOT to have to do that.
Again: Coffee. Éclair (or maybe a Napoleon). Comforter. Big book. Mmmm, comfy! And warm!
I think I shall luxuriously stretch at some point. Ooof!
Then smoke a pipe.
No, not in the nude!
In my warm fluffy bathrobe.
Perhaps with a throw-rug, too.
Still, this year is not like all previous years.
I need recommendations for an éclair place.
De Langhe was the best, but it is no more.
The battle is not yet won.
Suggestions welcome. There's an éclair in it for you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sign-in is at nine in the morning.
Which is approximately when I shall be getting out of bed, briefly, to fix myself that cup of nice strong coffee.
Obviously, I do NOT intend to be there.
Instead, I've paid a bunch of other people to be there for me.
Five of them, in fact.
So while they stumble around in the fog and mist of a summer morning out in Golden Gate Park, I shall be warmly ensconced in my bed, poofy comforter over my lower half, a thick coffee table book of New-Yorker cartoons spread open on my thighs, with a hot caffeinated beverage of my choice and a nice CREAMY CUSTARDY ÉCLAIR!
I am going to be sooooooo comfortable!
But I'll think about them now and then.
In between munching, sips, and giggles.
AH, BLISS!
The biggest question in my self-indulgent mind, for at least the next thirty hours, is "where am I going to find the éclair?"
In prior years, if I had wanted an éclair on Aids Walk Sunday, that would not have been a problem. Just pop over the hill along Bush Street the previous day. Unfortunately Pâtisserie De Langhe at 1890 Fillmore Street no longer exists. A very great pity, as their éclairs were purely scrumptious.
So were their Napoleons, Swedish Princess Cakes......
De Langhe was a national treasure.
I do not know where to get my good-morning pastries now.
It is a very great loss.
I am BEREFT, as I'm sure you understand.
I've NEVER gotten up early on Aids Walk Sunday. It always seemed so much more convenient to sponsor someone else to hike through the park at that hour. To that end, not only would I pay my roommate to do the heavy walking, I even tried to get others to contribute, including my coworkers at the Indian restaurant. The first year I tried, I got seven dollars out of them. That's a TOTAL of seven dollars, out of five different sub-continentals.
The next year, four dollars and fifty cents.
As one of them explained to me, "Indians don't get AIDS, only gay Americans get it - we don't DO such things".
Apparently, they do.
Pointing out to them that the human immunodeficiency virus did not discriminate, even if they themselves did, did not cut any mustard.
Nearly twenty skinflinty people worked at the restaurant.
First year: seven dollars. Second year: less than five.
One of them asked me how much I was contributing, then pretty darn-near called me a fool and a patsy once he found out how much it was.
I'm afraid he was overlooking the logical benefit of the exercise.
Contributing generously to a good cause gives you the right, the pleasant duty even, of staying nice and toasty warm on a cold San Francisco summer morning. Other people have to get up at the crack of dawn, when it is still dark and moist, and gird their loins for the task ahead. But not you. You have expended funds NOT to have to do that.
Again: Coffee. Éclair (or maybe a Napoleon). Comforter. Big book. Mmmm, comfy! And warm!
I think I shall luxuriously stretch at some point. Ooof!
Then smoke a pipe.
No, not in the nude!
In my warm fluffy bathrobe.
Perhaps with a throw-rug, too.
Still, this year is not like all previous years.
I need recommendations for an éclair place.
De Langhe was the best, but it is no more.
The battle is not yet won.
Suggestions welcome. There's an éclair in it for you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, July 14, 2011
SMALL DOG OF THE DUNES
The other day, being a bit down, I took a long walk to clear my head. There's a park fairly close to ocean, towards the west and north. It is a dog-friendly park, and as is standard for many public green areas of San Francisco, enjoyment of tobacco is forbidden, because the second-hand smoke might harm pets, puritans, small children, and addicts shooting up in the shrubbery.
So of course, once I was absolutely certain nobody was watching, I lit up, and sat down.
A short furry canine trotted past. He ignored my odoriferous pipe entirely, didn't even sniff at my legs, but headed straight for the bush next to the bench.
No, not that. It wasn't about territory.
That's what I thought too, but I was wrong.
Instead, what drew him was a large bloom that looked like a gardenia.
He sat down with his nose right up to the flower, and blissed out, wagging his tail.
I could've reached out and petted him, but he didn't need any help being happy.
For a while we just sat there, each of us in our own world.
A pipe-smoker and a small dog on a hillside, blanketed by the silvery-grey velvet of the fog.
Both of us smelling very well indeed.
I know I've met that dog before.
That is to say, I've met his previous incarnation.
I'm sure of it.
Years ago I was on vacation in England, visiting a friend and his wife who lived by the ocean. As you know, it is customary when visiting to bring a small gift to indicate that the warmth is appreciated.
Flowers, candy, liquor, or cigars - these are all appropriate. You tailor the gift to the household.
I gave him a box of cigars from Valkenswaard, her a casket of hand-made pralines from Antwerpen.
And a pack of English beef-sausages for the dog.
He and I smoked the cigars, she shared the pralines with her husband, and the canine hospitably split the sausages with both of them at breakfast.
The patio bordered the slope leading down to the sea, and because it was very far from the pier, this stretch of coast was almost a secret hide-away. Many days both of them and the dog were the only ones on the beach, and did what they wished entirely undisturbed.
My friend had moved an old leather armchair onto the sand above the water line - for a touch of comfort, he explained, and because outdoor furniture is so temporary and unsightly. Nothing beats a nice place to sit.
One afternoon I expelled the dog from the chair and sat there reading.
I had brought along the collected works of Saki and was revisiting my favourite short stories, and I didn't notice the passing of time. The dog came back once or twice to see if I was still in the chair, then wandered off to inspect a dead seagull or chivvy a crab.
When I finally looked up from my book the sky was silvery grey, the tide was rolling in and enfolding the beach, and the world seemed quieter than it had ever been that summer.
Someone had left some small sweet apples on the table next to the chair, along with a cup of tea. I guessed it must have been his wife, and that she had not wanted to disturb me while I was engrossed.
While twilight enveloped sand and water, I ate the fruits.
They smelled slightly briny - probably plucked from the trees in their garden.
Later we moved the chair back inside before it started raining. My friend and I wrestled it up the steps while his wife cheerfully told us she would have sat in it and had us carry her too, like a tribal queen, except that she didn't think we could manage to get it up the stairs without tipping her into the bushes. She speculated that one of us would fall back and go rolling down down down into the surf. She'd have to take off her scarf and use it as a life line, she said, and whichever person was in the water would nevertheless snuff it, because instead of using both hands to grasp the proffered silk, we'd be frantically trying to keep a pipe or a cigar out of the waves.
It started coming down in earnest after we had maneuvered the chair through the French doors into the sitting room. Moments later, their dog came bounding in, thoroughly and happily drenched. The pelt of a small furball accepts a surprising amount of water, and dogs are "aromatic" when wet. We dried the rambunctious beast off as best we could before he spattered too much. But he still had a robust air about him.
The four of us then sat under the patio-awning while it rained - a cigar smoker, a pipe smoker, a dampish canine person, and a woman cheerfully criticizing the men folk for being an exceptionally stinky bunch.
We didn't say anything, but I think all three of us noticed that she herself reeked nicely of orange blossom, sandalwood, jasmine.
The dog must have been particularly happy about it - he just sat right next to her, happy as a clam, energetically wagging his tail.
Grey and dark dark green, the colours of the rain and the sea at night, and of four shadows cast by the light behind us on the wet sand.
That's all anyone really wants - a comfortable place on a hill overlooking the water, and reverie-inducing smells.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
So of course, once I was absolutely certain nobody was watching, I lit up, and sat down.
A short furry canine trotted past. He ignored my odoriferous pipe entirely, didn't even sniff at my legs, but headed straight for the bush next to the bench.
No, not that. It wasn't about territory.
That's what I thought too, but I was wrong.
Instead, what drew him was a large bloom that looked like a gardenia.
He sat down with his nose right up to the flower, and blissed out, wagging his tail.
I could've reached out and petted him, but he didn't need any help being happy.
For a while we just sat there, each of us in our own world.
A pipe-smoker and a small dog on a hillside, blanketed by the silvery-grey velvet of the fog.
Both of us smelling very well indeed.
I know I've met that dog before.
That is to say, I've met his previous incarnation.
I'm sure of it.
Years ago I was on vacation in England, visiting a friend and his wife who lived by the ocean. As you know, it is customary when visiting to bring a small gift to indicate that the warmth is appreciated.
Flowers, candy, liquor, or cigars - these are all appropriate. You tailor the gift to the household.
I gave him a box of cigars from Valkenswaard, her a casket of hand-made pralines from Antwerpen.
And a pack of English beef-sausages for the dog.
He and I smoked the cigars, she shared the pralines with her husband, and the canine hospitably split the sausages with both of them at breakfast.
The patio bordered the slope leading down to the sea, and because it was very far from the pier, this stretch of coast was almost a secret hide-away. Many days both of them and the dog were the only ones on the beach, and did what they wished entirely undisturbed.
My friend had moved an old leather armchair onto the sand above the water line - for a touch of comfort, he explained, and because outdoor furniture is so temporary and unsightly. Nothing beats a nice place to sit.
One afternoon I expelled the dog from the chair and sat there reading.
I had brought along the collected works of Saki and was revisiting my favourite short stories, and I didn't notice the passing of time. The dog came back once or twice to see if I was still in the chair, then wandered off to inspect a dead seagull or chivvy a crab.
When I finally looked up from my book the sky was silvery grey, the tide was rolling in and enfolding the beach, and the world seemed quieter than it had ever been that summer.
Someone had left some small sweet apples on the table next to the chair, along with a cup of tea. I guessed it must have been his wife, and that she had not wanted to disturb me while I was engrossed.
While twilight enveloped sand and water, I ate the fruits.
They smelled slightly briny - probably plucked from the trees in their garden.
Later we moved the chair back inside before it started raining. My friend and I wrestled it up the steps while his wife cheerfully told us she would have sat in it and had us carry her too, like a tribal queen, except that she didn't think we could manage to get it up the stairs without tipping her into the bushes. She speculated that one of us would fall back and go rolling down down down into the surf. She'd have to take off her scarf and use it as a life line, she said, and whichever person was in the water would nevertheless snuff it, because instead of using both hands to grasp the proffered silk, we'd be frantically trying to keep a pipe or a cigar out of the waves.
It started coming down in earnest after we had maneuvered the chair through the French doors into the sitting room. Moments later, their dog came bounding in, thoroughly and happily drenched. The pelt of a small furball accepts a surprising amount of water, and dogs are "aromatic" when wet. We dried the rambunctious beast off as best we could before he spattered too much. But he still had a robust air about him.
The four of us then sat under the patio-awning while it rained - a cigar smoker, a pipe smoker, a dampish canine person, and a woman cheerfully criticizing the men folk for being an exceptionally stinky bunch.
We didn't say anything, but I think all three of us noticed that she herself reeked nicely of orange blossom, sandalwood, jasmine.
The dog must have been particularly happy about it - he just sat right next to her, happy as a clam, energetically wagging his tail.
Grey and dark dark green, the colours of the rain and the sea at night, and of four shadows cast by the light behind us on the wet sand.
That's all anyone really wants - a comfortable place on a hill overlooking the water, and reverie-inducing smells.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
STRAWBERRIES AND CREAM
Some people leave the house prepared for every eventuality, with a purse containing aspirin, codeine, ibuprofen, tampons, asthma inhalers, bandaids, pepper spray, bail money, a mystery novel, and maps.
Others have packages of insta-noodles in addition to all that.
One of my friends NEVER goes on a trip without a folding chair and packets of instant-cocoa, as well as an umbrella.
These things are all very comforting, but are they practical?
I usually travel much lighter. When I head to the office, I have a backpack with only the barest essentials: pens, smoking requisites, a notebook, and extra head gear for cold weather - one can lose half of one's body heat through the top of one's head.
[Headgear: two kippahs. A kippah can keep in warmth just as well as a fedora and prevent a man freezing to death. To illustrate, let us assume that due to unforeseen circumstances I find myself naked on Market Street one cold winter day.
No problem! I have a kippah! Hypothermia is thus avoided, because my head is covered and my body temperature normal. But kippot could also work for a woman under the same nude circumstances – that’s why I have one extra. I am a practical man.]
As you can see, very little. Merely the very barest of essentials.
If you feel you need more than that, you may be getting old.
And you probably worry too much.
Stop being a fossil.
Consider renewing your youth, rediscovering your vibrancy, and finding a younger greener voice.
Discard that big butch man (or woman) purse, and simply sling a lightweight pack over your shoulder, leaving the mountain climbing gear and wilderness survival kit at home.
If you really feel that it is necessary, pack some fresh underwear.
Or the moral equivalent.
Tackle circumstances with flexibility, rather than shlepping prophylaxis for every fondly imagined disaster.
And, in that vein, I conclude that I really must carry cake, cardboard, and string with me at all times.
You see, one of my friends said something that made me realize I’m going about the woman-thing all wrong.
My approach to finding a date, so far, has been utterly flawed.
Don’t talk, but tempt.
To that end, I have a clever plan involving cake and a really big box.....
OH MY CREAMY GOODNESS!
Specifically, Strawberry Cake: 士多啤梨蛋糕
I've heard that nice young ladies cannot resist cake.
It makes them blush.
There's something intrinsically happy and tactile about cake. Just dipping your finger into the frosting and slowly pulling it towards you till there's a big clot of sweet whipped cream on the tip.....
Or even just lifting the cake to your rosy lips to inhale a large mouthful of creamy goodness, along with a strawberry or two.
Sensuous, pleasurable, divine.
Imagine, then, a big box open at the bottom, with a stick propping it up.
Inside, on the ground, there is a pretty porcelain plate, with one of those little lace doily things, on top of which is a tempting slice of Strawberry CAKE!
A fork on a serviette next to it winks temptingly.
Hah!
It's totally fool proof. Nice young ladies can NOT resist cake.
Especially strawberry cake!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Others have packages of insta-noodles in addition to all that.
One of my friends NEVER goes on a trip without a folding chair and packets of instant-cocoa, as well as an umbrella.
These things are all very comforting, but are they practical?
I usually travel much lighter. When I head to the office, I have a backpack with only the barest essentials: pens, smoking requisites, a notebook, and extra head gear for cold weather - one can lose half of one's body heat through the top of one's head.
[Headgear: two kippahs. A kippah can keep in warmth just as well as a fedora and prevent a man freezing to death. To illustrate, let us assume that due to unforeseen circumstances I find myself naked on Market Street one cold winter day.
No problem! I have a kippah! Hypothermia is thus avoided, because my head is covered and my body temperature normal. But kippot could also work for a woman under the same nude circumstances – that’s why I have one extra. I am a practical man.]
As you can see, very little. Merely the very barest of essentials.
If you feel you need more than that, you may be getting old.
And you probably worry too much.
Stop being a fossil.
Consider renewing your youth, rediscovering your vibrancy, and finding a younger greener voice.
Discard that big butch man (or woman) purse, and simply sling a lightweight pack over your shoulder, leaving the mountain climbing gear and wilderness survival kit at home.
If you really feel that it is necessary, pack some fresh underwear.
Or the moral equivalent.
Tackle circumstances with flexibility, rather than shlepping prophylaxis for every fondly imagined disaster.
And, in that vein, I conclude that I really must carry cake, cardboard, and string with me at all times.
You see, one of my friends said something that made me realize I’m going about the woman-thing all wrong.
My approach to finding a date, so far, has been utterly flawed.
Don’t talk, but tempt.
To that end, I have a clever plan involving cake and a really big box.....
OH MY CREAMY GOODNESS!
Specifically, Strawberry Cake: 士多啤梨蛋糕
I've heard that nice young ladies cannot resist cake.
It makes them blush.
There's something intrinsically happy and tactile about cake. Just dipping your finger into the frosting and slowly pulling it towards you till there's a big clot of sweet whipped cream on the tip.....
Or even just lifting the cake to your rosy lips to inhale a large mouthful of creamy goodness, along with a strawberry or two.
Sensuous, pleasurable, divine.
Imagine, then, a big box open at the bottom, with a stick propping it up.
Inside, on the ground, there is a pretty porcelain plate, with one of those little lace doily things, on top of which is a tempting slice of Strawberry CAKE!
A fork on a serviette next to it winks temptingly.
Hah!
It's totally fool proof. Nice young ladies can NOT resist cake.
Especially strawberry cake!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
WILDERNESS: A BLEND FOR FOREST CREATURES
I was prepared to be less than quite impressed. After all, I consider myself fairly immune to the poofle written on labels nowadays.
Poofle, I know. I’m responsible for some of it myself.
“This luxurious tandoori specialty recalls a Caravan-serai along the exotic Silk-Road, redolent with the spice-fragrances of antiquity, tickling tastebuds long dormant as it induces exquisite dreams of paradise.”
Or something like that.
It wasn’t originally quite so purple, but between the owner of the restaurant and myself we selected my five best texts (in his mind), and sort of clobbered them together.
I had written over a hundred samples, tailoring my style to his personality.
The result was a text that for several years afterwards I wanted to forget.
Or leastways deny any responsibility for.
Poofle.
WILDERNESS McClelland Collector Series.
Blender: Fred Hanna
Tin poofle: “This remarkable blend formulated by Fred Hanna provides a multi-layered, rich, taste experience. The highest quality Syrian Latakia combines with a small amount of Cyprian to form the base for an exquisite array of rare and precious Orientals - sweet Drama, exotic Yenidje, and more. Red Virginias complement the blend, adding sweetness, richness, strength, and creaminess. Smoke this mixture and listen for the echoes of savored memories.”
[Wilderness Pipe Tobacco. From McClelland Tobacco Company in Kansas City, Missouri.]
I am nevertheless exceptionally pleased with this product. This is not a bold knock-you-over-the-head blend as that first-position mention of Syrian would suggest. Yes, it's a medium-full English, but withal an extremely civilized and enjoyable tobacco mixture.
Well-balanced, rounded, rich on the tongue and velvety in the nostrils.
The room-note, if you are a pipe-smoker, is utterly delightful.
Why they called it wilderness is beyond me.
I have no urge to go out into the wilds while smoking this, rather, I would prefer to find a nice comfortable fauteuille somewhere quiet, where I could happily sit a while, perhaps reading back-issues of North-American Shoe Collector or The Odd Man Digest.
Nothing in this blend is over the top. Everything comes together beautifully, especially in a somewhat smaller pipe.
I have been smoking it on a daily basis in one of my knock-arounders, a Charatan Zulu from the mid-fifties that never really performed for me.
That pipe has now been promoted, and I shall henceforth think of it fondly.
"Listen for the echoes of savored memories"
What the bucket does that mean? This isn't the stuff of memory, this is something for here and now. An extremely present tense blend.
Reverie inducing, day-dream prompting.
"...It is nearly tea time when I ring the doorbell. You come down the stairs to let me in - that pleated skirt suits you so nicely, by the way, and those are lovely pearls - with your own pipe in your mouth.
Together we go up to the living room, where in silence we sit at the big table, deep in study. You with your tome on the history of Flanders and Brabant during the high middle-ages, me with a thick volume on butterflies of the South-East Asian rainforest.
There is a tin of pipe tobacco between us, and a packet of pipe cleaners.
Occasionally my hand brushes against your small warm fingers when we both reach for the matches or the tamper. Life is very good indeed. We are isolated from the cold San Francisco weather and the chill winds that bring in the fog. Afternoon glides gracefully into evening.
After a last cup of tea (milk and sugar, please), I load up a third bowl-full, and head out into darkened streets. Thank you for a truly wonderful time!"
Wilderness is the type of fine mixture that mr. Badger should smoke.
I must order more of it.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Poofle, I know. I’m responsible for some of it myself.
“This luxurious tandoori specialty recalls a Caravan-serai along the exotic Silk-Road, redolent with the spice-fragrances of antiquity, tickling tastebuds long dormant as it induces exquisite dreams of paradise.”
Or something like that.
It wasn’t originally quite so purple, but between the owner of the restaurant and myself we selected my five best texts (in his mind), and sort of clobbered them together.
I had written over a hundred samples, tailoring my style to his personality.
The result was a text that for several years afterwards I wanted to forget.
Or leastways deny any responsibility for.
Poofle.
WILDERNESS McClelland Collector Series.
Blender: Fred Hanna
Tin poofle: “This remarkable blend formulated by Fred Hanna provides a multi-layered, rich, taste experience. The highest quality Syrian Latakia combines with a small amount of Cyprian to form the base for an exquisite array of rare and precious Orientals - sweet Drama, exotic Yenidje, and more. Red Virginias complement the blend, adding sweetness, richness, strength, and creaminess. Smoke this mixture and listen for the echoes of savored memories.”
[Wilderness Pipe Tobacco. From McClelland Tobacco Company in Kansas City, Missouri.]
I am nevertheless exceptionally pleased with this product. This is not a bold knock-you-over-the-head blend as that first-position mention of Syrian would suggest. Yes, it's a medium-full English, but withal an extremely civilized and enjoyable tobacco mixture.
Well-balanced, rounded, rich on the tongue and velvety in the nostrils.
The room-note, if you are a pipe-smoker, is utterly delightful.
Why they called it wilderness is beyond me.
I have no urge to go out into the wilds while smoking this, rather, I would prefer to find a nice comfortable fauteuille somewhere quiet, where I could happily sit a while, perhaps reading back-issues of North-American Shoe Collector or The Odd Man Digest.
Nothing in this blend is over the top. Everything comes together beautifully, especially in a somewhat smaller pipe.
I have been smoking it on a daily basis in one of my knock-arounders, a Charatan Zulu from the mid-fifties that never really performed for me.
That pipe has now been promoted, and I shall henceforth think of it fondly.
"Listen for the echoes of savored memories"
What the bucket does that mean? This isn't the stuff of memory, this is something for here and now. An extremely present tense blend.
Reverie inducing, day-dream prompting.
"...It is nearly tea time when I ring the doorbell. You come down the stairs to let me in - that pleated skirt suits you so nicely, by the way, and those are lovely pearls - with your own pipe in your mouth.
Together we go up to the living room, where in silence we sit at the big table, deep in study. You with your tome on the history of Flanders and Brabant during the high middle-ages, me with a thick volume on butterflies of the South-East Asian rainforest.
There is a tin of pipe tobacco between us, and a packet of pipe cleaners.
Occasionally my hand brushes against your small warm fingers when we both reach for the matches or the tamper. Life is very good indeed. We are isolated from the cold San Francisco weather and the chill winds that bring in the fog. Afternoon glides gracefully into evening.
After a last cup of tea (milk and sugar, please), I load up a third bowl-full, and head out into darkened streets. Thank you for a truly wonderful time!"
Wilderness is the type of fine mixture that mr. Badger should smoke.
I must order more of it.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, July 11, 2011
A GLORIOUS ANNIVERSARY
Sometimes you just have to take pride in communal massacres. It wasn't the other side's fault that they were, by a horrible accident of birth, poxy bastards with toenail fungus and venereal disease that deserved to be wiped off the face of the earth, but there you have it.
On May 18, 1302, the good citizens of Brugge ('Bruges') re-entered their city and slaughtered every Frenchman that infested the place.
MAY 18 - THE BRUGES MATINS
[De Brugse Metten]
"In the cold blue of early dawn, as faintly light grew, and languorously chased away the shadows, the sleepy watchers on the gate-tower became aware of a many pointed glittering underneath the aged oaks outside the city gate. First few, then more and more glimmerings made themselves apparent in the grass below the trees. Like pearls, like diamonds, these refractive and almost iridescent dew-born twinkles.... glittered, glimmered, shone, and sparkled, in the pools of dark beneath the ancient branches.
A shaft of light cut through the haze, and the sun finally rose above the ribbon of forest which limned the borders of this world. Light struck the objects near the tree trunks, and rebounded upwards, temporarily blinding the observing guards.
And as the world became bright, the realization dawned on them that only steel reflects so sharply. The city gates swung loudly open. Who did so? Who unbolted that protective portal so early? What Judas lurked within, and so deftly delivered these Leliaerds to a horrible fate?
The mass of armed men in the orchard... then rose as one, and before the French soldiers had a chance of reacting, the wall of Flemish swords was upon them. With glory and valour the nation freed itself of her oppressors, and before the sun had reached its height the streets had been laved with the blood of tyrants. "
[Re-quoted from here: savage joy.]
JULY 11 - THE FIELD OF GOLDEN SPURS
[De Guldensporenslag]
Following the Bruges bloodbath, the king of France, Philip the Fourth, sent an army under the command of Robert of Artois to punish the fractious Flemings and reassert his authority.
The two sides met on a grassy field outside Kortrijk ("Courtrai") on July 11, 1302.
The French forces consisted of armoured cavalry, with crossbowmen, spearmen, and light infantry. A very formidable military by the standards of the age.
The citizens of Flanders had the Goedendag (a club-like short spear), and the Geldon (a long spear).
Robert of Artois first sent his infantry to fight the rebels, then ordered the cavalry to charge the Flemish shield-wall. The knights thundered into the muddy field..... and, as the natives had expected, got bogged down.
The Flemish did not take any prisoners.
Such much decorative martial frippery was stripped from the corpses of French knights that the Church of Our Lady in Kortrijk seemed as if the stars had come down to roost among the pillars with the triumphant tribute and decoration.
But for the fact that civilization won a climactic battle against the forces of darkness and barbarism on this day, there would be little remarkable about the date.
Ale tonight. And boisterous jollification.
Have a happy Golden Spurs day.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
On May 18, 1302, the good citizens of Brugge ('Bruges') re-entered their city and slaughtered every Frenchman that infested the place.
MAY 18 - THE BRUGES MATINS
[De Brugse Metten]
"In the cold blue of early dawn, as faintly light grew, and languorously chased away the shadows, the sleepy watchers on the gate-tower became aware of a many pointed glittering underneath the aged oaks outside the city gate. First few, then more and more glimmerings made themselves apparent in the grass below the trees. Like pearls, like diamonds, these refractive and almost iridescent dew-born twinkles.... glittered, glimmered, shone, and sparkled, in the pools of dark beneath the ancient branches.
A shaft of light cut through the haze, and the sun finally rose above the ribbon of forest which limned the borders of this world. Light struck the objects near the tree trunks, and rebounded upwards, temporarily blinding the observing guards.
And as the world became bright, the realization dawned on them that only steel reflects so sharply. The city gates swung loudly open. Who did so? Who unbolted that protective portal so early? What Judas lurked within, and so deftly delivered these Leliaerds to a horrible fate?
The mass of armed men in the orchard... then rose as one, and before the French soldiers had a chance of reacting, the wall of Flemish swords was upon them. With glory and valour the nation freed itself of her oppressors, and before the sun had reached its height the streets had been laved with the blood of tyrants. "
[Re-quoted from here: savage joy.]
JULY 11 - THE FIELD OF GOLDEN SPURS
[De Guldensporenslag]
Following the Bruges bloodbath, the king of France, Philip the Fourth, sent an army under the command of Robert of Artois to punish the fractious Flemings and reassert his authority.
The two sides met on a grassy field outside Kortrijk ("Courtrai") on July 11, 1302.
The French forces consisted of armoured cavalry, with crossbowmen, spearmen, and light infantry. A very formidable military by the standards of the age.
The citizens of Flanders had the Goedendag (a club-like short spear), and the Geldon (a long spear).
Robert of Artois first sent his infantry to fight the rebels, then ordered the cavalry to charge the Flemish shield-wall. The knights thundered into the muddy field..... and, as the natives had expected, got bogged down.
The Flemish did not take any prisoners.
Such much decorative martial frippery was stripped from the corpses of French knights that the Church of Our Lady in Kortrijk seemed as if the stars had come down to roost among the pillars with the triumphant tribute and decoration.
But for the fact that civilization won a climactic battle against the forces of darkness and barbarism on this day, there would be little remarkable about the date.
Ale tonight. And boisterous jollification.
Have a happy Golden Spurs day.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, July 10, 2011
THE PIPESMOKING POET: WILLEM GODSCHALK VAN FOCQUENBROCH
Earlier today I had a discussion with a friend about surnames.
I mentioned that some of the Dutch cognomina were more than a little strange, due to the tendency to see how far one could push French bureaucrats during the Napoleonic interregnum. Many people, assuming that once Bonaparte and his bandy-legged frogs were defeated things would go back to the way they were, gave totally outrageous names for the tax records and the census.
Once the legitimate government was reconstituted, however, it was decided that the French had done such a splendid job cataloguing the fractious natives that not a jot, not a tittle, would be changed. At least not without good reason.
Which meant that if you had told the government that you were 'born naked in the meadow’ (“naackt geboren in den weyde”), well splendid – you could formally appell yourself mister 'Born Naked In The Meadow’ (Mynheer Naacktgeborenindenweyde).
Now please fill out that tax form in full, and in triplicate.
Not all Dutch names have so accidental a history, though.
Some date back several centuries further.
Consider Willem Godschalck van Focquenbroch.
In Dutch the name sounds a little unusual, but perfectly all right.
In English, for some strange reason entirely unknown to this writer, it seems to have much the same effect as the nomen of that vewwy gweat fwiend in Wome of Pontius Pilate.
Wisible, to say the vewwy least.
If you, dear reader, find the name Willem Godschalck van Focquenbroch 'problematic', please feel free to circumlocute it as 'the poet of effing-brook'.
I shall not mind. I'm used to people having trouble with my tongue.
The important thing is that you know of him.
To that end, two poems.
SPES MEA FUMUS EST
Wyl ick, dus sit en smoock een Pijpjen aen de haert,
Met een bedruckt gelaet, de oogen na de aerd,
d' Een elboogh onder 't Hooft, soeckt mijn gedacht de reden,
Waerom 't geval my plaeght met so veel straffigheden?
De hoop daer op, (die my vast uytstelt dach, aen dach,
Schoon dat ick nooyt yet goets van al mijn hoopen sach),
Belooft my wederom haest tot mijn wensch te koomen,
En maeckt my grooter als een Keyser van Out Romen.
Maer nauw ist smoockend kruydt verbrant tot stof, en asch,
Of 'k vind my in die standt daer ick voor dees' in was.
En nauw sie ick de roock in yd'le lucht verswinden,
Of 'k segh, dat ick in 't minst geen onderscheyt kan vinden;
In, of ick leef of hoop, of dat 'k een pypje smoock;
Want 't een is niet als windt, en 't ander niet als rook.
http://www.gedichten.nl/nedermap/poezie/poezie/171195.html
Paraphrasis:
My Hopes Are Smoke
While seated, smoking a pipe at the hearth,
With gloomy countenance, eyes downcast,
Chin in my hands; my thoughts seek the reason
Why fate plagues me with so many punishments?
The hope of it (which postpones me day upon day,
To that measure that I never yet seen any good come of my hopes),
Once again promises me that I will come close to what I desire,
And makes me more puffed up than an Emperor of ancient Rome.
Too soon the smoking herb is burnt to dust and ash,
Or I would find myself in that state to which I aspired.
And I see such swirls adrift in the unmoving air,
That perhaps I cannot see a distinction,
In whether I live or hope, or smoke a pipe;
The one is not wind (=profitable), the other not smoke.
SONNET OP EEN PIJP DIE HIJ NIET AEN KON HOUWEN
O Goude Son! wiens licht noch noyt is uyt gegaen,
Maer die gedurig brant by ons, of d'Antipoden,
Ghy, die geen swavel-stock, noch vuurslach hebt van noden,
Om, (of ghy wierd gedooft) u weer in brandt te slaen:
Ghy van wiens vuur, al de Planeeten, en de Maen,
Haer leven trecken, als de menschen van de brooden,
Ja sonder wien ons vuur geen pot sou kunnen zooden,
En niemandt schier een bout half gaer sou kunnen braên:
Ghy, welckers vrolijck licht de Weereldt doet herleven,
Met recht word u de naem van God'lijck toegeschreven,
Nadien g'al meerder deugt op aerdt doet als de Wijn;
Ick sal tot uwer eer een Hoog Altaer doen bouwen,
Soo ghy maeckt dat dees Pijp die schier geen vuur wil houwen,
Meê even eens als ghy, altijdt ontfonckt mag sijn.
Source: http://laurensjzcoster.blogspot.com/2011/06/willem-godschalk-van-focquenbroch.html
From: African Thalia]
Paraphrasis:
Sonnet on a pipe that he could not keep lit
Oh golden sun, whose light has never dimmed,
But constantly burns either here or at the antipodes,
You, who need neither sulfur stick nor flint,
To (if you were extinguished) again set you alight:
You, from whose fire all the planets, and the moon
Draw their life like humans do from bread,
Verily, without whose fire no pots could be seethed,
And perhaps none could even roast their meat;
You, whose cheerful light permits the world to live again,
Are rightly called godly,
For being more beneficial to our earth than wine;
To honour you I shall have a great altar built,
If you make this pipe, which refuses to hold any flame whatsoever,
Be like yourself: eternally lit.
AN EDUCATED MAN
Willem Godschalck van Focquenbroch was born in Amsterdam in 1640. His parents were refugees from the Spanish-occupied city of Antwerpen, who had resettled in the free North. After studying at Leiden University, young Focquenbroch qualified as a doctor of medicine at the University of Utrecht.
His thesis was entitled ' De lue venerea' ("concerning venereal diseases").
Six years later, his expertise in this fascinating field no doubt played a primary role in the West Indies Company commissioning him as a 'Fiscaal' and posting to him to Fort Elmina in Ghana.
[Fort Elmina: Built by the Portuguese on the Slave-Coast in 1482, one of the primary centres of human misery for three centuries. The Dutch made several attempts to capture it, the first time in 1596. Finally, in 1637, the 'impregnable citadel' surrendered after a siege of only a few days by the forces of Johan Maurits (Count John Maurits of Nassau-Siegen, 1604 - 1679) to everyone's considerable surprise.]
Willem Godschalck van Focquenbroch died during the epidemic at Elmina in 1670.
He is famous as a poet, playwright, satirist, and humourist.
The dullards of the nineteenth century did not much appreciate him, but his oeuvre was seldom out of print during the seventeenth and eighteenth century, and in our age his dry wit and ribald eloquence are once more highly prized.
NOTE:
A good place to go for more Dutch poetry is here: http://laurensjzcoster.blogspot.com/
Please note that the varieties of Dutch represented span several centuries and several dominant koines and literary writing styles, so the unwarned reader may be slightly unmoored at first.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I mentioned that some of the Dutch cognomina were more than a little strange, due to the tendency to see how far one could push French bureaucrats during the Napoleonic interregnum. Many people, assuming that once Bonaparte and his bandy-legged frogs were defeated things would go back to the way they were, gave totally outrageous names for the tax records and the census.
Once the legitimate government was reconstituted, however, it was decided that the French had done such a splendid job cataloguing the fractious natives that not a jot, not a tittle, would be changed. At least not without good reason.
Which meant that if you had told the government that you were 'born naked in the meadow’ (“naackt geboren in den weyde”), well splendid – you could formally appell yourself mister 'Born Naked In The Meadow’ (Mynheer Naacktgeborenindenweyde).
Now please fill out that tax form in full, and in triplicate.
Not all Dutch names have so accidental a history, though.
Some date back several centuries further.
Consider Willem Godschalck van Focquenbroch.
In Dutch the name sounds a little unusual, but perfectly all right.
In English, for some strange reason entirely unknown to this writer, it seems to have much the same effect as the nomen of that vewwy gweat fwiend in Wome of Pontius Pilate.
Wisible, to say the vewwy least.
If you, dear reader, find the name Willem Godschalck van Focquenbroch 'problematic', please feel free to circumlocute it as 'the poet of effing-brook'.
I shall not mind. I'm used to people having trouble with my tongue.
The important thing is that you know of him.
To that end, two poems.
SPES MEA FUMUS EST
Wyl ick, dus sit en smoock een Pijpjen aen de haert,
Met een bedruckt gelaet, de oogen na de aerd,
d' Een elboogh onder 't Hooft, soeckt mijn gedacht de reden,
Waerom 't geval my plaeght met so veel straffigheden?
De hoop daer op, (die my vast uytstelt dach, aen dach,
Schoon dat ick nooyt yet goets van al mijn hoopen sach),
Belooft my wederom haest tot mijn wensch te koomen,
En maeckt my grooter als een Keyser van Out Romen.
Maer nauw ist smoockend kruydt verbrant tot stof, en asch,
Of 'k vind my in die standt daer ick voor dees' in was.
En nauw sie ick de roock in yd'le lucht verswinden,
Of 'k segh, dat ick in 't minst geen onderscheyt kan vinden;
In, of ick leef of hoop, of dat 'k een pypje smoock;
Want 't een is niet als windt, en 't ander niet als rook.
http://www.gedichten.nl/nedermap/poezie/poezie/171195.html
Paraphrasis:
My Hopes Are Smoke
While seated, smoking a pipe at the hearth,
With gloomy countenance, eyes downcast,
Chin in my hands; my thoughts seek the reason
Why fate plagues me with so many punishments?
The hope of it (which postpones me day upon day,
To that measure that I never yet seen any good come of my hopes),
Once again promises me that I will come close to what I desire,
And makes me more puffed up than an Emperor of ancient Rome.
Too soon the smoking herb is burnt to dust and ash,
Or I would find myself in that state to which I aspired.
And I see such swirls adrift in the unmoving air,
That perhaps I cannot see a distinction,
In whether I live or hope, or smoke a pipe;
The one is not wind (=profitable), the other not smoke.
SONNET OP EEN PIJP DIE HIJ NIET AEN KON HOUWEN
O Goude Son! wiens licht noch noyt is uyt gegaen,
Maer die gedurig brant by ons, of d'Antipoden,
Ghy, die geen swavel-stock, noch vuurslach hebt van noden,
Om, (of ghy wierd gedooft) u weer in brandt te slaen:
Ghy van wiens vuur, al de Planeeten, en de Maen,
Haer leven trecken, als de menschen van de brooden,
Ja sonder wien ons vuur geen pot sou kunnen zooden,
En niemandt schier een bout half gaer sou kunnen braên:
Ghy, welckers vrolijck licht de Weereldt doet herleven,
Met recht word u de naem van God'lijck toegeschreven,
Nadien g'al meerder deugt op aerdt doet als de Wijn;
Ick sal tot uwer eer een Hoog Altaer doen bouwen,
Soo ghy maeckt dat dees Pijp die schier geen vuur wil houwen,
Meê even eens als ghy, altijdt ontfonckt mag sijn.
Source: http://laurensjzcoster.blogspot.com/2011/06/willem-godschalk-van-focquenbroch.html
From: African Thalia]
Paraphrasis:
Sonnet on a pipe that he could not keep lit
Oh golden sun, whose light has never dimmed,
But constantly burns either here or at the antipodes,
You, who need neither sulfur stick nor flint,
To (if you were extinguished) again set you alight:
You, from whose fire all the planets, and the moon
Draw their life like humans do from bread,
Verily, without whose fire no pots could be seethed,
And perhaps none could even roast their meat;
You, whose cheerful light permits the world to live again,
Are rightly called godly,
For being more beneficial to our earth than wine;
To honour you I shall have a great altar built,
If you make this pipe, which refuses to hold any flame whatsoever,
Be like yourself: eternally lit.
AN EDUCATED MAN
Willem Godschalck van Focquenbroch was born in Amsterdam in 1640. His parents were refugees from the Spanish-occupied city of Antwerpen, who had resettled in the free North. After studying at Leiden University, young Focquenbroch qualified as a doctor of medicine at the University of Utrecht.
His thesis was entitled ' De lue venerea' ("concerning venereal diseases").
Six years later, his expertise in this fascinating field no doubt played a primary role in the West Indies Company commissioning him as a 'Fiscaal' and posting to him to Fort Elmina in Ghana.
[Fort Elmina: Built by the Portuguese on the Slave-Coast in 1482, one of the primary centres of human misery for three centuries. The Dutch made several attempts to capture it, the first time in 1596. Finally, in 1637, the 'impregnable citadel' surrendered after a siege of only a few days by the forces of Johan Maurits (Count John Maurits of Nassau-Siegen, 1604 - 1679) to everyone's considerable surprise.]
Willem Godschalck van Focquenbroch died during the epidemic at Elmina in 1670.
He is famous as a poet, playwright, satirist, and humourist.
The dullards of the nineteenth century did not much appreciate him, but his oeuvre was seldom out of print during the seventeenth and eighteenth century, and in our age his dry wit and ribald eloquence are once more highly prized.
NOTE:
A good place to go for more Dutch poetry is here: http://laurensjzcoster.blogspot.com/
Please note that the varieties of Dutch represented span several centuries and several dominant koines and literary writing styles, so the unwarned reader may be slightly unmoored at first.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, July 09, 2011
DANCING IN THE TWILIGHT
It takes talent to be happy. Either that, or a sufficient quantity of whiskey.
See, the mature mind tends naturally towards a level of lugubriosity, and requires adequate distraction. People with a rich inner life (i.e. "insanity") achieve this naturally.
The rest of us must rely on companionship or intoxication.
For nearly a year I've been having a lot better luck with the intoxication.
Which is rather amusing, considering that I would far rather have the companionship of a young lady who abstemes.
But one does not run into temperate creatures in bars.
I could go back to school again, I suppose. Except at my age, Lowell High would look somewhat askance at my application.
"Mr. Atboth, are you SURE you're not a pervert?!?
We do have quite a number of innocent young ladies here - young ladies far too busy with academic pursuits to be on their guard against the glinting eyes of foxy middle-aged single men such as yourself!"
You don't say? I had NO clue! I'm just here to bone up on calculus. Honest!
Yeah, I know. Creepy. But not my idea.
Some well-meaning friend suggested I attend classes as a way to meet women who might like my company. But I believe he was thinking of basket-weaving at the local community college.
You can understand that facing the prospect of meaningful mid-thirties earthmother types wearing beads and tie-dyes (or, worse, serious Philippinas learning clerical skills and basic accounting), I would naturally prefer an academic high school just packed to the brim with bespectacled teenage Chinese brainiacs.
I don't know. The company of the brainiacs just seems so much more healthy.
Besides, meaningful earthmother types make me barf, and serious Philippinas put me to sleep (when they do not irritate the spit out of me).
Other than that, there's writing classes..... but listening to some nimnoo stutteringly read her badly written turgid spew is far less exciting to me than hearing myself stutter out my own turgid spew, odd as that may seem.
Book clubs..... mmmmmmmm, turgid spew?
Poetry readings?
Oh please! Turgid spew squared. In verse, yet.
I might do ball-room dancing.
Except that unless I bring my own dance-partner, I would probably end up clutching the sweaty arms of a rotation of breathless Philippinas wearing tie-dye and quoting turgid spew.
About butterflies, flowers, and little babies! more precious! than angels!
I wonder if any nice young bespectacled Chinese brainiacs out there want to learn how to walz or foxtrot?
Call me.
Until then, I will just be sitting next to my bottle of T. J. D.'S Aito Ruiz Scandinavian 100% Rye (a profoundly smoky Finnish whiskey imported by Atlantic Brands Inc. in Playa Del Rey, California), day-dreaming about doing the tango with a little four-eyed temptress quoting Shakespeare or Ann Rice.
Presently that appears to be the next best thing to a talent for being happy.
I used to have that, but it seems to have temporarily gone missing.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
See, the mature mind tends naturally towards a level of lugubriosity, and requires adequate distraction. People with a rich inner life (i.e. "insanity") achieve this naturally.
The rest of us must rely on companionship or intoxication.
For nearly a year I've been having a lot better luck with the intoxication.
Which is rather amusing, considering that I would far rather have the companionship of a young lady who abstemes.
But one does not run into temperate creatures in bars.
I could go back to school again, I suppose. Except at my age, Lowell High would look somewhat askance at my application.
"Mr. Atboth, are you SURE you're not a pervert?!?
We do have quite a number of innocent young ladies here - young ladies far too busy with academic pursuits to be on their guard against the glinting eyes of foxy middle-aged single men such as yourself!"
You don't say? I had NO clue! I'm just here to bone up on calculus. Honest!
Yeah, I know. Creepy. But not my idea.
Some well-meaning friend suggested I attend classes as a way to meet women who might like my company. But I believe he was thinking of basket-weaving at the local community college.
You can understand that facing the prospect of meaningful mid-thirties earthmother types wearing beads and tie-dyes (or, worse, serious Philippinas learning clerical skills and basic accounting), I would naturally prefer an academic high school just packed to the brim with bespectacled teenage Chinese brainiacs.
I don't know. The company of the brainiacs just seems so much more healthy.
Besides, meaningful earthmother types make me barf, and serious Philippinas put me to sleep (when they do not irritate the spit out of me).
Other than that, there's writing classes..... but listening to some nimnoo stutteringly read her badly written turgid spew is far less exciting to me than hearing myself stutter out my own turgid spew, odd as that may seem.
Book clubs..... mmmmmmmm, turgid spew?
Poetry readings?
Oh please! Turgid spew squared. In verse, yet.
I might do ball-room dancing.
Except that unless I bring my own dance-partner, I would probably end up clutching the sweaty arms of a rotation of breathless Philippinas wearing tie-dye and quoting turgid spew.
About butterflies, flowers, and little babies! more precious! than angels!
I wonder if any nice young bespectacled Chinese brainiacs out there want to learn how to walz or foxtrot?
Call me.
Until then, I will just be sitting next to my bottle of T. J. D.'S Aito Ruiz Scandinavian 100% Rye (a profoundly smoky Finnish whiskey imported by Atlantic Brands Inc. in Playa Del Rey, California), day-dreaming about doing the tango with a little four-eyed temptress quoting Shakespeare or Ann Rice.
Presently that appears to be the next best thing to a talent for being happy.
I used to have that, but it seems to have temporarily gone missing.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, July 08, 2011
UNDERPANTS GNOME
There's an old joke in Dutch about three gentlemen who join the French Foreign Legion, namely a German, a Dutchman, and a Belgian. Now, to understand the joke, you should know that Germans are logical and organized, the Dutch are like the Germans but better (more intelligent, more creative), and the Belgians are dim as burned-out bulbs.
The German is sworn in and told to pick up his kit at the supply-sergeant's desk. How many underpants? Seven, he says. "Seven? Why Seven?
The German responds: "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.... "
The Dutchman, when it's his turn, requests eight. "The other chap needed only seven, why do you need eight?" "Monday, Tuesday ...... and one extra for emergencies! "
The Belgian requests eleven. "Good heavens, man, eleven?"
"Yah, dot's January, February, March....."
Something on e-kvetcher's blog had me thinking about underwear all the way through my lunch. Burrito con carnitas y salsa picante, sin frijoles. Except that they mixed up my order with someone else's, and I got frijoles anyway.
Not so much underwear in general as panties in particular; bikini briefs, French cut briefs, and high cut briefs. The difference between them is that bikini briefs have a low waistband (in contrast to granny panties), French cuts have high leg openings canted forward, and high cuts have deep leg openings more in-tune with a natural design and a waistband slightly on the high side.
Bikini briefs look good on trim short women, French cuts are for slim yet curvaceous girls, and almost anyone can find high cuts that fit them, even if they are overly statuesque drag queens on Polk Street.
Hipster briefs and thongs should not be worn by anybody.
Years ago some genius came up with the concept that panties should have the day of the week embroidered on them, much like the fancy seven-day briar pipe sets that were sold by companies such as Dunhill and Comoy.
This is the kind of idea that ONLY makes sense to a man.
Yet, for some reason, those panties are still being sold. Women, apparently, like the snarkiness of wearing the wrong day.
Possibly because it's disconcerting to other people, though one has to wonder: who would know?
One little accident, and the set is ruined.
Pipe companies, in addition to vending seven-day sets, also sell anniversary pipes, and a number of them also make a 'pipe of the year'.
While I consider such things no more than silly marketing gimmicks, it would make complete sense to do the same with panties.
Hypothetical advertisement:
"The 2011 Panty Of The Year is a fine French cut with a soft triple panel, ivory-hued Belgian lace at waist and leg openings, in electric raspberry or chartreuse silk, available in sizes 4S through 7½L, and for a limited time custom-built for all XL and XXL sizes. Allow two weeks for delivery, six for custom-builts."
What a wonderful idea! I could collect all sizes, from several different companies, each year. All pieces mounted on museum quality paper-board in matching glass-fronted display cases, suitable for either hanging on the wall or storing in a climate-controlled cabinet.
Original wrapping, mint condition, store-starched.......
"Now this here is a very rare Pearlbox™ lowrise baroque twelve-month set, solid black front panel, with Indian cotton gusset, and a sheer rosé back. Notice the very fine ruby lace along the waist. It matches the month-name script-appliqué."
Imagine, if you will, the fascinating individuality of each aficionado's collection. Some men would specialize in certain sizes, others would go for only French cuts or Hipster Briefs, "eccentrics" might like thongs.....
And, because of the delicacy of the material, there would have to be specialized restorationists. Professionals familiar with fabrics, clocking, replacing elastic, mending lace, weaving over minor damage caused by insects.
Delicate laundering, careful ironing.
With proper care, and a yearly once-over, a panty library might last for centuries, slowly fading and acquiring that precious air of antiquity.
Rare top-quality pieces in excellent condition would be sold at auctions attended by the cream of society.
I think I've come up with a whole new field of connoisseurship here. The possibilities are unlimited.
Good lord, I am brilliant!
I am ready to be admired.
Feel free to share your thoughts and preferences in the comments section.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The German is sworn in and told to pick up his kit at the supply-sergeant's desk. How many underpants? Seven, he says. "Seven? Why Seven?
The German responds: "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.... "
The Dutchman, when it's his turn, requests eight. "The other chap needed only seven, why do you need eight?" "Monday, Tuesday ...... and one extra for emergencies! "
The Belgian requests eleven. "Good heavens, man, eleven?"
"Yah, dot's January, February, March....."
Something on e-kvetcher's blog had me thinking about underwear all the way through my lunch. Burrito con carnitas y salsa picante, sin frijoles. Except that they mixed up my order with someone else's, and I got frijoles anyway.
Not so much underwear in general as panties in particular; bikini briefs, French cut briefs, and high cut briefs. The difference between them is that bikini briefs have a low waistband (in contrast to granny panties), French cuts have high leg openings canted forward, and high cuts have deep leg openings more in-tune with a natural design and a waistband slightly on the high side.
Bikini briefs look good on trim short women, French cuts are for slim yet curvaceous girls, and almost anyone can find high cuts that fit them, even if they are overly statuesque drag queens on Polk Street.
Hipster briefs and thongs should not be worn by anybody.
Years ago some genius came up with the concept that panties should have the day of the week embroidered on them, much like the fancy seven-day briar pipe sets that were sold by companies such as Dunhill and Comoy.
This is the kind of idea that ONLY makes sense to a man.
Yet, for some reason, those panties are still being sold. Women, apparently, like the snarkiness of wearing the wrong day.
Possibly because it's disconcerting to other people, though one has to wonder: who would know?
One little accident, and the set is ruined.
Pipe companies, in addition to vending seven-day sets, also sell anniversary pipes, and a number of them also make a 'pipe of the year'.
While I consider such things no more than silly marketing gimmicks, it would make complete sense to do the same with panties.
Hypothetical advertisement:
"The 2011 Panty Of The Year is a fine French cut with a soft triple panel, ivory-hued Belgian lace at waist and leg openings, in electric raspberry or chartreuse silk, available in sizes 4S through 7½L, and for a limited time custom-built for all XL and XXL sizes. Allow two weeks for delivery, six for custom-builts."
What a wonderful idea! I could collect all sizes, from several different companies, each year. All pieces mounted on museum quality paper-board in matching glass-fronted display cases, suitable for either hanging on the wall or storing in a climate-controlled cabinet.
Original wrapping, mint condition, store-starched.......
"Now this here is a very rare Pearlbox™ lowrise baroque twelve-month set, solid black front panel, with Indian cotton gusset, and a sheer rosé back. Notice the very fine ruby lace along the waist. It matches the month-name script-appliqué."
Imagine, if you will, the fascinating individuality of each aficionado's collection. Some men would specialize in certain sizes, others would go for only French cuts or Hipster Briefs, "eccentrics" might like thongs.....
And, because of the delicacy of the material, there would have to be specialized restorationists. Professionals familiar with fabrics, clocking, replacing elastic, mending lace, weaving over minor damage caused by insects.
Delicate laundering, careful ironing.
With proper care, and a yearly once-over, a panty library might last for centuries, slowly fading and acquiring that precious air of antiquity.
Rare top-quality pieces in excellent condition would be sold at auctions attended by the cream of society.
I think I've come up with a whole new field of connoisseurship here. The possibilities are unlimited.
Good lord, I am brilliant!
I am ready to be admired.
Feel free to share your thoughts and preferences in the comments section.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, July 07, 2011
HELLO KITTY SMOKING TOBACCO
If anyone were to ask, I would admit it: I am an addict.
Caffeine, nicotine, and highly refined white sugar.
These are the pillars of life, the source of all that is good in the world.
Well, meat too. I like meat.
It has been said that having children drives people into the arms of caffeine and nicotine.
The tiny terrors are so enervating that you need a crutch just to be around them.
That, and their feeding times.
If I had kids I would be tempted to expose the little trolls to caffeine and nicotine just to see if it made them human.
The sugar they would discover on their own, I have no doubt of that.
And it's just a matter of time before they fricassee one of the pets.
Not everyone understands how a person can rely on coffee and tobacco, or even consider them pleasurable.
And sugar, I have been told, is just evil.
The person who informed me of this was disgusted by my filthy habits.
How, she demanded to know, could I bear to pollute my body in such a way?
Lady, some temples are just meant to be despoiled, okay?
She wished me to know that her body was not thus! She strenuously avoided caffeine, nicotine, sugar, and even meat. A person of high ideals would not partake of these things. No sir!
Brusquely dismissing my argument that human progress had advanced much more rapidly in the last four centuries precisely because of the introduction of caffeinated beverages, tobacco products, and refined sugar, she primly averred that those things were responsible for more human misery than all the wars and hard drugs combined.
And meat, she was convinced, was a wasteful use of resources, besides bad for one's psyche. It angrified the moods or something.
Avoid meat! At all costs! Nice people are not carnivores!
Killing! Animals! for food! is just! Barbaric!
Shoes, purse, belt.
What?
"Shoes, purse, belt. It's okay to kill animals for your shoes, purse, and belt?"
Apparently I am just dense. And trying to change the subject!
At this point another woman entered the conversation. She wished to know why I had such bestial passions, why couldn't I just be nice? Surely there are better things than caffeine, nicotine, sugar... and meat?
There's cake, for instance. And flowers. And butterflies and little animals.
When I was small I probably loved all those things, and one should always keep the heart of a child.
The innocence! The joyous spirit! The smiling time!
She was certain that I would be a happier person if I just tried!
I pointed out that she herself was trying far too hard. Wearing a Hello Kitty sweater isn't childlike, it's just silly.
Do not confuse goobertude with "young at heart".
Besides, Hello Kitty isn't innocent, but a class 'A' mercantile slut.
Her visage shows up on ANYTHING to make it more sellable.
Urinal targets. Vibrators. Motorbikes. Love hotel suites.
Trollop underwear! Panties, pasties, bras.
Stripper garb, and sexy stockings.
Not that there's anything wrong with that, those things are all useful.
And I myself am keenly appreciative of several of them, particularly panties, bras, and stockings.
But my point is that Hello Kitty is by no means an unblemished icon.
Hello Kitty is a marketing tool whose only purpose is to drive sales of otherwise fairly mediocre merchandise through the roof.
I've heard that the Hello Kitty vibrator breaks down, by the way.
Hello Kitty hamburger presses, Hello Kitty frying pans, Hello Kitty grills.
Hello Kitty candy. Hello Kitty soda. Hello Kitty cakes.
If they thought it could make a buck, they'd put Hello Kitty on ammo clips, rat poison, and army uniforms.
There's probably already a brand of Hello Kitty Coffee.
We're just waiting for Hello Kitty Smoking Tobacco.
And that would be the ONLY worthwhile Hello Kitty product.
Even I would buy it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Caffeine, nicotine, and highly refined white sugar.
These are the pillars of life, the source of all that is good in the world.
Well, meat too. I like meat.
It has been said that having children drives people into the arms of caffeine and nicotine.
The tiny terrors are so enervating that you need a crutch just to be around them.
That, and their feeding times.
If I had kids I would be tempted to expose the little trolls to caffeine and nicotine just to see if it made them human.
The sugar they would discover on their own, I have no doubt of that.
And it's just a matter of time before they fricassee one of the pets.
Not everyone understands how a person can rely on coffee and tobacco, or even consider them pleasurable.
And sugar, I have been told, is just evil.
The person who informed me of this was disgusted by my filthy habits.
How, she demanded to know, could I bear to pollute my body in such a way?
Lady, some temples are just meant to be despoiled, okay?
She wished me to know that her body was not thus! She strenuously avoided caffeine, nicotine, sugar, and even meat. A person of high ideals would not partake of these things. No sir!
Brusquely dismissing my argument that human progress had advanced much more rapidly in the last four centuries precisely because of the introduction of caffeinated beverages, tobacco products, and refined sugar, she primly averred that those things were responsible for more human misery than all the wars and hard drugs combined.
And meat, she was convinced, was a wasteful use of resources, besides bad for one's psyche. It angrified the moods or something.
Avoid meat! At all costs! Nice people are not carnivores!
Killing! Animals! for food! is just! Barbaric!
Shoes, purse, belt.
What?
"Shoes, purse, belt. It's okay to kill animals for your shoes, purse, and belt?"
Apparently I am just dense. And trying to change the subject!
At this point another woman entered the conversation. She wished to know why I had such bestial passions, why couldn't I just be nice? Surely there are better things than caffeine, nicotine, sugar... and meat?
There's cake, for instance. And flowers. And butterflies and little animals.
When I was small I probably loved all those things, and one should always keep the heart of a child.
The innocence! The joyous spirit! The smiling time!
She was certain that I would be a happier person if I just tried!
I pointed out that she herself was trying far too hard. Wearing a Hello Kitty sweater isn't childlike, it's just silly.
Do not confuse goobertude with "young at heart".
Besides, Hello Kitty isn't innocent, but a class 'A' mercantile slut.
Her visage shows up on ANYTHING to make it more sellable.
Urinal targets. Vibrators. Motorbikes. Love hotel suites.
Trollop underwear! Panties, pasties, bras.
Stripper garb, and sexy stockings.
Not that there's anything wrong with that, those things are all useful.
And I myself am keenly appreciative of several of them, particularly panties, bras, and stockings.
But my point is that Hello Kitty is by no means an unblemished icon.
Hello Kitty is a marketing tool whose only purpose is to drive sales of otherwise fairly mediocre merchandise through the roof.
I've heard that the Hello Kitty vibrator breaks down, by the way.
Hello Kitty hamburger presses, Hello Kitty frying pans, Hello Kitty grills.
Hello Kitty candy. Hello Kitty soda. Hello Kitty cakes.
If they thought it could make a buck, they'd put Hello Kitty on ammo clips, rat poison, and army uniforms.
There's probably already a brand of Hello Kitty Coffee.
We're just waiting for Hello Kitty Smoking Tobacco.
And that would be the ONLY worthwhile Hello Kitty product.
Even I would buy it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
A MOST UNSUITABLE BRA!
Let's talk about engineering achievements. Some things are not meant to exist, but they do, seemingly defying all natural laws.
That's the genius of engineering.
Some engineers are depraved.
Which is the only explanation I can come up with for that woman's brassiere.
No, this is NOT about Savage Kitten. Kindly get your mind out of the gutter.
[Note: Savage Kitten is my ex-girlfriend. A delightful woman. While I shall not go into detail about her undergarments, let me just say that I remember them as both sensible and in truly excellent taste. Very nice. That is all you need to know.]
I was outside the office building having a smoke when a woman stopped nearby to chat on her cell-phone. Her breasts poked straight out with far greater conviction than nature ever intended.
Her bra focused the mammaries erectly forward, pushed forth and rigidly uplifted, in a way that may have been meant to tempt the attention - and given how much of her cleavage was showing that is a logical supposition - but mostly served to highlight the geometric precision of a ninety degree angle.
The ninety degree angle is not really that common in nature.
I just couldn't look at them.
It hurt the eyes.
Mind you, I have spent considerable time contemplating breasts, as I am a middle-aged man and have had several years of adulthood to ponder such details. That's something men do when they hit a certain age. We are interested in structure.
We can't help it, we're spatially oriented.
Breasts, no matter their shape and dimension, are not supposed to jut out like an unsupported balcony. It just does not look right when you have to wonder what is holding those things up.
Please repeat after me: "breasts do not fly".
Back in the fifties, I am told, brassieres aimed for the missile-look, much like the twin-cones that Madonna made famous.
There may have been an ironic intent there, but nothing about that effect is normal.
"BREASTS DO NOT FLY!"
Even as a child I knew what a proper breast looked like. Not that I was particularly focused on them at that age, but I certainly knew what a breast was, and what one should resemble.
One of the songs I heard at my mother's knee was the Guantanamo song.
"Guantanamo City has hundreds of doors,
And each of them's filled with hundreds of whores;
They hang from the windows with stark-naked chests,
They bash out your brains with their low-hanging breasts."
I believe my mother might have learned this charming lullaby when she was in the Navy. There were several other tender ballads (Kafoozalem, A Sheikh of Araby, The Ring Dang Doo, The Winnipeg Whore, Barnacle Bill The Sailor, etcetera) that I knew before I ever hit my second digits.
Either it was the military environment, or the fact that she was in the English department at CAL.
"We'll sing of her praises and pray for the day, we blow the hell out of Guantanamo Bay."
See, a desire to cause explosions is what unwholesome mammary presentation does to people.
I'm convinced that all those illegal fireworks in my neighborhood over the weekend were because of glandular protraction and elevation.
People hurt themselves that way.
"BREASTS DO NOT FLY!"
The properly designed brassiere should cup and support, keeping the objects of their commission from moving around too much and getting irritated or strained. Too much friction on the nipple must be prevented, as must bruising of the softer tissues.
The closer the cup is to realistic contour and placement, the less damage and discomfort is likely. Normally, women have fairly harmonious curvature. Gentle arcs rather than protuberances and protruding beams.
Architecturally, bosoms are more like the graceful mosques of Mughal India than the sharp-edged Gothic cathedrals of mediaeval Europe.
Think of the gentle glowing dunes around the ancient oasis of Hawar, rather than the stark crags of the Scottish Highlands.
A breast should NEVER look like a rock formation.
I feel VERY strongly about this.
* * * * * *
I was actually planning to write a sensitive post calculated to lure in some nice demoiselle today, hoping that she might consider me an all-round interesting chap, well-worth knowing.
A gentle clean-minded girl, who would think well of me.
I'm afraid I rather got distracted.
This post sure ain't it.
Sorry.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
That's the genius of engineering.
Some engineers are depraved.
Which is the only explanation I can come up with for that woman's brassiere.
No, this is NOT about Savage Kitten. Kindly get your mind out of the gutter.
[Note: Savage Kitten is my ex-girlfriend. A delightful woman. While I shall not go into detail about her undergarments, let me just say that I remember them as both sensible and in truly excellent taste. Very nice. That is all you need to know.]
I was outside the office building having a smoke when a woman stopped nearby to chat on her cell-phone. Her breasts poked straight out with far greater conviction than nature ever intended.
Her bra focused the mammaries erectly forward, pushed forth and rigidly uplifted, in a way that may have been meant to tempt the attention - and given how much of her cleavage was showing that is a logical supposition - but mostly served to highlight the geometric precision of a ninety degree angle.
The ninety degree angle is not really that common in nature.
I just couldn't look at them.
It hurt the eyes.
Mind you, I have spent considerable time contemplating breasts, as I am a middle-aged man and have had several years of adulthood to ponder such details. That's something men do when they hit a certain age. We are interested in structure.
We can't help it, we're spatially oriented.
Breasts, no matter their shape and dimension, are not supposed to jut out like an unsupported balcony. It just does not look right when you have to wonder what is holding those things up.
Please repeat after me: "breasts do not fly".
Back in the fifties, I am told, brassieres aimed for the missile-look, much like the twin-cones that Madonna made famous.
There may have been an ironic intent there, but nothing about that effect is normal.
"BREASTS DO NOT FLY!"
Even as a child I knew what a proper breast looked like. Not that I was particularly focused on them at that age, but I certainly knew what a breast was, and what one should resemble.
One of the songs I heard at my mother's knee was the Guantanamo song.
"Guantanamo City has hundreds of doors,
And each of them's filled with hundreds of whores;
They hang from the windows with stark-naked chests,
They bash out your brains with their low-hanging breasts."
I believe my mother might have learned this charming lullaby when she was in the Navy. There were several other tender ballads (Kafoozalem, A Sheikh of Araby, The Ring Dang Doo, The Winnipeg Whore, Barnacle Bill The Sailor, etcetera) that I knew before I ever hit my second digits.
Either it was the military environment, or the fact that she was in the English department at CAL.
"We'll sing of her praises and pray for the day, we blow the hell out of Guantanamo Bay."
See, a desire to cause explosions is what unwholesome mammary presentation does to people.
I'm convinced that all those illegal fireworks in my neighborhood over the weekend were because of glandular protraction and elevation.
People hurt themselves that way.
"BREASTS DO NOT FLY!"
The properly designed brassiere should cup and support, keeping the objects of their commission from moving around too much and getting irritated or strained. Too much friction on the nipple must be prevented, as must bruising of the softer tissues.
The closer the cup is to realistic contour and placement, the less damage and discomfort is likely. Normally, women have fairly harmonious curvature. Gentle arcs rather than protuberances and protruding beams.
Architecturally, bosoms are more like the graceful mosques of Mughal India than the sharp-edged Gothic cathedrals of mediaeval Europe.
Think of the gentle glowing dunes around the ancient oasis of Hawar, rather than the stark crags of the Scottish Highlands.
A breast should NEVER look like a rock formation.
I feel VERY strongly about this.
* * * * * *
I was actually planning to write a sensitive post calculated to lure in some nice demoiselle today, hoping that she might consider me an all-round interesting chap, well-worth knowing.
A gentle clean-minded girl, who would think well of me.
I'm afraid I rather got distracted.
This post sure ain't it.
Sorry.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
THE FRIENDLY COMPANY OF FELLOW SMOKERS
Let us call him the ostrich. Not because he resembles one, or has a big feathery bottom.
Nor even because of any nobility of gait, or elegant plumage.
The situation is this:
I asked why he was STILL smoking those phallic objects (cigars), when we all know that his good woman is keen to marry.
White-bread weddings are a pricy proposition.
Cut back on the expenses, man, you’ll need all that money after you pop the question.
He explained that he’s smoking to make space. There are three boxes of cigars for which there is no room in the humidor.
“Dude, simply buy another one.”
It seemed like good advice to me. The Ostrich has enough cigars to last the better part of a decade, as well as tons of pipe tobacco.
And he prefers smoking a pipe anyway.
Given the cost of his daily cigar-destruction, he’d recoup the expense of a reserve humidor in no time.
Do the math, and you’ll see what I mean.
One penis-shaped bunch of leaves, average: $15.00. Three or four a day.
One tin of pipe tobacco which will take at least a week to smoke: $15.00.
One large two-hundred stick capacity wooden box: $150.00 to $500.00.
Properly stored, cigars keep for years. Improve with age. Win-win.
A RING COSTS THREE MONTHS SALARY
Did I already mention that his good lady is interested in marriage?
She doesn’t sound like she has enough imagination to dispense with the ring-requirement.
More like a standard-issue wanna-be suburbanite who reads romance novels, self-help, and celebrity gossip mags.
Down payment on a house, plus a new four-wheel drive and a pet Pomeranian.
Not really a gay bohemian determined to go against the grain.
The ring is an essential part of the whole deal!
Three (or more) months’ salary.
No two ways about it.
Bite bullet.
At hearing this he balked. Three months salary? Ridiculous!
Surely a silly little ring couldn’t cost so much!
He’d find a way around that!
Three months?
Absurd!
At this point several people strongly advised against going to a pawnshop.
And don’t think of getting an el cheapo cubic zirconium.
For crap’s sake, dude, do the right thing!
Oh the effing humanity!
Think, man, think.
The day after you give a woman a ring she’s headed downtown to have it appraised.
Jeweler gonna ask why she buyin’ cheap sh*t from his cousin Manny?
Then offer her two hundred bucks, no questions.
She will so cut you!
Pissed!
He still can’t accept how expensive that bauble is going to be. Refuses to even entertain the concept. Hardly seems worth it! No way José!
How long does the average marriage last anyhow? Seven years?
Nope, gonna find a plan. Just you watch.
I interjected that the well-chosen humidor could easily last three or four times as long.
And saving up for the ring would be much easier at 50 cents per smoke (a pipe of fine tobacco) than at $15.00 (a representation of masculine inadequacy constructed out of dead leaves).
It’s surprising how fast money accumulates when it isn’t “going up in flames”.
He still doesn’t get it.
Before he left, we promised to hook him up with the very best divorce lawyer we know before he even proposes.
We have his best interests at heart - you got the A team advising you. We know what we're talking about.
Make sure the prenup specifically excludes the cigar and tobacco stockpile from the joint assets.
As well as the prize collection of briar pipes.
Because otherwise, dude, she’s taking HALF of it all when she dumps your cheap ass!
“No, she wouldn’t do that, what use would they be to her?”
A valid question, albeit it entirely beside the point. Slightly more than beyond clueless.
He also insists he could demand half of her purses and shoes.
Clearly he doesn’t grasp the gravity of the situation.
Those purses and shoes, hmmph! SO last year!
They will be by the time she dumps him.
If he doesn’t get her a decent ring he’s simply asking for trouble.
He thinks he can bargain. Redeem the pipes, cigars, tobacco.
Get off Scott-free, out-maneuver her, and have it all anyway.
Maybe I should get in touch with the young lady in question.
Tell her to cut everything exactly down the middle.
Her one half, and him one half.
A left side, a right side.
Pipes and cigars.
Humidor too.
Yeah!
* * *
I really hope I get invited to the wedding.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Nor even because of any nobility of gait, or elegant plumage.
The situation is this:
I asked why he was STILL smoking those phallic objects (cigars), when we all know that his good woman is keen to marry.
White-bread weddings are a pricy proposition.
Cut back on the expenses, man, you’ll need all that money after you pop the question.
He explained that he’s smoking to make space. There are three boxes of cigars for which there is no room in the humidor.
“Dude, simply buy another one.”
It seemed like good advice to me. The Ostrich has enough cigars to last the better part of a decade, as well as tons of pipe tobacco.
And he prefers smoking a pipe anyway.
Given the cost of his daily cigar-destruction, he’d recoup the expense of a reserve humidor in no time.
Do the math, and you’ll see what I mean.
One penis-shaped bunch of leaves, average: $15.00. Three or four a day.
One tin of pipe tobacco which will take at least a week to smoke: $15.00.
One large two-hundred stick capacity wooden box: $150.00 to $500.00.
Properly stored, cigars keep for years. Improve with age. Win-win.
A RING COSTS THREE MONTHS SALARY
Did I already mention that his good lady is interested in marriage?
She doesn’t sound like she has enough imagination to dispense with the ring-requirement.
More like a standard-issue wanna-be suburbanite who reads romance novels, self-help, and celebrity gossip mags.
Down payment on a house, plus a new four-wheel drive and a pet Pomeranian.
Not really a gay bohemian determined to go against the grain.
The ring is an essential part of the whole deal!
Three (or more) months’ salary.
No two ways about it.
Bite bullet.
At hearing this he balked. Three months salary? Ridiculous!
Surely a silly little ring couldn’t cost so much!
He’d find a way around that!
Three months?
Absurd!
At this point several people strongly advised against going to a pawnshop.
And don’t think of getting an el cheapo cubic zirconium.
For crap’s sake, dude, do the right thing!
Oh the effing humanity!
Think, man, think.
The day after you give a woman a ring she’s headed downtown to have it appraised.
Jeweler gonna ask why she buyin’ cheap sh*t from his cousin Manny?
Then offer her two hundred bucks, no questions.
She will so cut you!
Pissed!
He still can’t accept how expensive that bauble is going to be. Refuses to even entertain the concept. Hardly seems worth it! No way José!
How long does the average marriage last anyhow? Seven years?
Nope, gonna find a plan. Just you watch.
I interjected that the well-chosen humidor could easily last three or four times as long.
And saving up for the ring would be much easier at 50 cents per smoke (a pipe of fine tobacco) than at $15.00 (a representation of masculine inadequacy constructed out of dead leaves).
It’s surprising how fast money accumulates when it isn’t “going up in flames”.
He still doesn’t get it.
Before he left, we promised to hook him up with the very best divorce lawyer we know before he even proposes.
We have his best interests at heart - you got the A team advising you. We know what we're talking about.
Make sure the prenup specifically excludes the cigar and tobacco stockpile from the joint assets.
As well as the prize collection of briar pipes.
Because otherwise, dude, she’s taking HALF of it all when she dumps your cheap ass!
“No, she wouldn’t do that, what use would they be to her?”
A valid question, albeit it entirely beside the point. Slightly more than beyond clueless.
He also insists he could demand half of her purses and shoes.
Clearly he doesn’t grasp the gravity of the situation.
Those purses and shoes, hmmph! SO last year!
They will be by the time she dumps him.
If he doesn’t get her a decent ring he’s simply asking for trouble.
He thinks he can bargain. Redeem the pipes, cigars, tobacco.
Get off Scott-free, out-maneuver her, and have it all anyway.
Maybe I should get in touch with the young lady in question.
Tell her to cut everything exactly down the middle.
Her one half, and him one half.
A left side, a right side.
Pipes and cigars.
Humidor too.
Yeah!
* * *
I really hope I get invited to the wedding.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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GRITS AND TOFU
Like most Americans, I have a list of people who should be peacefully retired from public service and thereafter kept away from their desks,...
