Human beings are social creatures. Throughout our development as a species, for tens of thousands of years, those who "played well with others" have, generally speaking, had a better chance at contributing to the gene-pool. This accounts for our evolved ability to feel on behalf of others, our sense of empathy, and our softer side. As a result, we have programmed into us the desire to be liked.
Knowing that we are liked is profoundly reassuring, and protective even - the association of others who like us must mean that they aren't likely to whack us and eat us for dinner.
What we don't have quite so well programmed is the ability to effect that eventuality.
Consequently we all have different approaches to the question, some of which are entirely below our conscious mind.
I, for instance, always have a faint aroma of fine tobacco. It is one of my most likeable characteristics. Who wouldn't enjoy the comforting company of an urbane gentleman with sparkling eyes, a healthy level of perversion, vim, vigour, and above all that intoxicating perfume?
You're right, it's hard to imagine.
One of my coworkers, however, may be quite defective in that regard.
For the past few days he's radiated the robust reek of cooked broccoli.
Which, truth be told, is one of the ghastliest things ever invented.
Years ago I visited some friends, and inquired politely about the nauseating ponque in their house.
They told me that they had prepared steamed broccoli, and lit incense to cover the smell.
Cheap Indian hippie joss DOES NOT combine well with overcooked broccoli.
Something their own noses should have told them.
It was a cumulation of gaggable.
My coworker is a married man. That's TWO people who should know that broccoli is repulsive.
Alas. No.
Apparently they made a BIG batch of broccoli and chunked chicken breast.
He believes that one should eat five small meals a day.
Which means that every two or three hours, he sticks the plastic container he brought from home into the microwave, then slowly mouths his second, third, or fourth lunch while vouchering invoices.
The malodour sticks around far past feeding time.
It's a VERY big batch of broccoli and chicken.
He has enough to last at least another week.
Clearly a delicate and appealing aroma is not part of his preprogrammed likeability toolkit.
If anything, broccoli would have the opposite effect.
Not at all like my own endearing hue of aged tobacco.
Overcooked broccoli fair makes me gag.
But I smell good.
BROCCOLI AND BROCCOLI
Personally I've always believed that broccoli was invented by Benito Mussolini as a way of achieving parity with the Germans, especially as regards obnoxiousness and general funk.
Possibly the Japanese high-command during World War Two also had a hand in it.
Truly nasty stuff.
That said, however, one must distinguish TWO things:
ONE: Don't overcook the damned thing, and above all don't reheat it - doing either of these turn it unendurably vile.
TWO: Not all broccoli is broccoli. Western broccoli is a woody Italian cultivar of Brassica oleracea, whereas Chinese broccoli (Kai Lan: 芥蘭) is a different strain entirely (alboglabra).
Chinese broccoli is delicious, slightly bitter, and has a tender crunch. The immediately noticeable visual difference is that 'broccoli' resembles a tree branch with tumours, but Chinese broccoli looks like stalky mustard greens with much more leaf than floret.
Beef and broccoli, a well-known Chinese restaurant dish, is delicious made with Chinese broccoli. Outside of Chinatown it is more often made with western broccoli, and is rather unpleasant despite its enormous popularity among white people.
Chinese broccoli is beautiful and elegant.
Western broccoli is a sulfurous curse.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, September 16, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
JAPANESE WOMAN FANTASY: AKANE TENDO
One of the visual novels which I've been revisiting lately is Ranma ½, written by Japanese mangaka Rumiko Takahashi, published in serial form from 1987 through 1996.
The Chinese translation was completed long before the English translation, in consequence of which I have the entire series of 38 volumes in Chinese, but only a few volumes in English.
It's a good read. Especially when you realize that the author is a woman, writing for a largely female audience. That might not be immediately apparent, as many of the readers in the United States are teenage boys attracted by the clever illustrations of curvaceous insane girls.
Nominally it's about martial arts, but that is merely a story pretext. It's actually a piercing send-up of young Japanese women's self-images and their ideas about men.
Consequently the core characters are all female and (eventually) fully developed people, whereas the boys are often mono-dimensional, and have certain set behavioural patterns from which they barely deviate.
Except, that is, for the boy after whom the series is named: Ranma Saotome.
Who, a large part of the time, is actually a girl.
An extremely shapely girl.
[Explanation: Ranma and his father both fell into cursed pools that changed them into whatever drowned there a long time ago. Consequently when we first see them, Ranma in girl form is fighting with a large angry Panda. Being doused with hot water changes them back to their original shape. The accidental splash of cold water that transforms Ranma and his dad is a recurring comic motif - especially once ancient master Happosai, who is a dessicated old pervert of phenomenal proportions, arrives on the scene.]
"A VERY SWEET GIRL"
Ranma's relationship with Akane Tendo is the crux of the story. The two of them are, unwillingly, engaged to each other as per an agreement between their fathers.
Ranma at times is an insensitive clod.
And, in Akane's opinion, a pervert.
Akane is the one character without whom the story would have far less appeal. She's warm-hearted, intelligent, and capable, but she's also vulnerable and stubborn. As well as extremely short tempered, flying off the handle when irritated. Forcefully so.
"She's really a very sweet girl. She's just a violent maniac."
Everyone else in the series can be seen as tangential to her, she's the central character. Ranma's zany adventures and periodic gender-switching always either revolve around her or interact with her.
That is something that you would not really understand if you were reading the work for the frequent bits of voluptuous nudity - a worthwhile pursuit on its own, as it is very nicely drawn - but without Akane as the lynchpin there really is no story.
This is especially noticeably when you contrast Akane's central role with the comedic interludes that feature Shampoo, that being a young lady who precisely and approximately represents the quintessence of every male teenager's sex-bombe fantasy.
Shampoo, the most over-the-top voluptuous of the many attractive female characters, is absolutely predictable. In every episode in which she appears, she will at some point throw herself at clueless Ranma while entirely naked. Given how she has been drawn, those pages are undoubtedly the most treasured of a young boy's possessions.
Not surprisingly, she is the most avidly sought-after of action-figures among the entire cast of the story.
INNOCENT DEPRAVITY
Probably not coincidentally, Shampoo is also one of the most violent, devious, and ethically limited of the characters. Unlike Akane, Shampoo has no compunction whatsoever about using dirty tricks and blackmail to achieve her goal, that ultimately being marriage to Ranma.
She is likeable, admirable even, but 100% a loose cannon.
It says a lot about the Japanese that the most sexual of women in this work is also the most psychotic, conniving, and extrovert.
What says even more than that though is that Shampoo is not even Japanese.
Being Japanese means having limits; being foreign implies freedom from constraints.
That, and the operatic cartoon violence in every episode - obviously how the author and probably many other Japanese women would LIKE to react to the simple minded males that surround them - indicate that on one level this is by no means just another manga harem comedy with luscious fan service to keep the attention of the masculine reader, but a complex farrago of repressed urges and frustrations to which the characters react, or that they perforce act out.
The tale is, in that sense, one of release.
On an entirely different level, it is also about female courage and steadfastness. Those two traits are fundamental to an understanding of Akane. While the males demonstrate all their weaknesses and irritate the spit out of the women, the females show strength of character and true spirit - despite clobbering the males or kicking them through the roof.
The males are flighty and (at times) deviant, the women are resolute and strong.
Female empowerment humorously writ in every episode.
With appealing visuals for perverts.
There's nothing like it.
Great stuff.
Art.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The Chinese translation was completed long before the English translation, in consequence of which I have the entire series of 38 volumes in Chinese, but only a few volumes in English.
It's a good read. Especially when you realize that the author is a woman, writing for a largely female audience. That might not be immediately apparent, as many of the readers in the United States are teenage boys attracted by the clever illustrations of curvaceous insane girls.
Nominally it's about martial arts, but that is merely a story pretext. It's actually a piercing send-up of young Japanese women's self-images and their ideas about men.
Consequently the core characters are all female and (eventually) fully developed people, whereas the boys are often mono-dimensional, and have certain set behavioural patterns from which they barely deviate.
Except, that is, for the boy after whom the series is named: Ranma Saotome.
Who, a large part of the time, is actually a girl.
An extremely shapely girl.
[Explanation: Ranma and his father both fell into cursed pools that changed them into whatever drowned there a long time ago. Consequently when we first see them, Ranma in girl form is fighting with a large angry Panda. Being doused with hot water changes them back to their original shape. The accidental splash of cold water that transforms Ranma and his dad is a recurring comic motif - especially once ancient master Happosai, who is a dessicated old pervert of phenomenal proportions, arrives on the scene.]
"A VERY SWEET GIRL"
Ranma's relationship with Akane Tendo is the crux of the story. The two of them are, unwillingly, engaged to each other as per an agreement between their fathers.
Ranma at times is an insensitive clod.
And, in Akane's opinion, a pervert.
Akane is the one character without whom the story would have far less appeal. She's warm-hearted, intelligent, and capable, but she's also vulnerable and stubborn. As well as extremely short tempered, flying off the handle when irritated. Forcefully so.
"She's really a very sweet girl. She's just a violent maniac."
Everyone else in the series can be seen as tangential to her, she's the central character. Ranma's zany adventures and periodic gender-switching always either revolve around her or interact with her.
That is something that you would not really understand if you were reading the work for the frequent bits of voluptuous nudity - a worthwhile pursuit on its own, as it is very nicely drawn - but without Akane as the lynchpin there really is no story.
This is especially noticeably when you contrast Akane's central role with the comedic interludes that feature Shampoo, that being a young lady who precisely and approximately represents the quintessence of every male teenager's sex-bombe fantasy.
Shampoo, the most over-the-top voluptuous of the many attractive female characters, is absolutely predictable. In every episode in which she appears, she will at some point throw herself at clueless Ranma while entirely naked. Given how she has been drawn, those pages are undoubtedly the most treasured of a young boy's possessions.
Not surprisingly, she is the most avidly sought-after of action-figures among the entire cast of the story.
INNOCENT DEPRAVITY
Probably not coincidentally, Shampoo is also one of the most violent, devious, and ethically limited of the characters. Unlike Akane, Shampoo has no compunction whatsoever about using dirty tricks and blackmail to achieve her goal, that ultimately being marriage to Ranma.
She is likeable, admirable even, but 100% a loose cannon.
It says a lot about the Japanese that the most sexual of women in this work is also the most psychotic, conniving, and extrovert.
What says even more than that though is that Shampoo is not even Japanese.
Being Japanese means having limits; being foreign implies freedom from constraints.
That, and the operatic cartoon violence in every episode - obviously how the author and probably many other Japanese women would LIKE to react to the simple minded males that surround them - indicate that on one level this is by no means just another manga harem comedy with luscious fan service to keep the attention of the masculine reader, but a complex farrago of repressed urges and frustrations to which the characters react, or that they perforce act out.
The tale is, in that sense, one of release.
On an entirely different level, it is also about female courage and steadfastness. Those two traits are fundamental to an understanding of Akane. While the males demonstrate all their weaknesses and irritate the spit out of the women, the females show strength of character and true spirit - despite clobbering the males or kicking them through the roof.
The males are flighty and (at times) deviant, the women are resolute and strong.
Female empowerment humorously writ in every episode.
With appealing visuals for perverts.
There's nothing like it.
Great stuff.
Art.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
STRANGE STUFF THAT COMES OUT OF CHINESE PEOPLE'S MOUTHS
As many of my readers know, I live with another person.
For two decades we were in a relationship.
That ended over a year ago.
We're still living together because we still like each other, and we trust each other.
We get along rather well.
I'm white and a little deaf.
She's Chinese and remarkably soft spoken - which most Cantonese people are not.
Yesterday I heard her say "I'm starting to really dislike white pubes".
You can imagine my surprise. Twenty years with me.
And she's now seeing another Caucasian guy.
Bit late for that to be an issue.
"I'm starting to dislike white pubes"
I can somewhat understand the sentiment, but it does seem a little strange.
You might think that she would've had that stark realization before now.
Maybe she saw the two exhibitionists that join protests in this city?
They're unmistakably white, and visually unrewarding.
That could've been the final drop.
As it turns out, she didn't mean 'white pubes'.
What she actually said was "white Buddhists".
You know, Caucasians going all gooey spiritual and sh*t.
Mantras, chanting, beads, butterflies, and all kinds of meaningful.
I don't know if I should be glad it wasn't what I thought.
White Buddhists are far worse than most white pubes.
Some white pubes are kind of nice.
Won't get too detailed, but...
We can all agree on that.
"I'M TALKING STOP SNEEZING!"
Simple, straightforward, and utterly berserk. Obviously, if the child is sneezing when the mother is speaking to it, the child is doing it deliberately. Disobedient!
The woman then accused the kid of learning that in school.
Sneezing classes, hah!
Teenagers!
YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE!
The bus going into the downtown was absolutely packed, we were jammed in cheek to jowl. Every time somebody need to get off they had to struggle to get to the door. Morning bus rides are an adventure. Heck, just trying to breathe on the municipal sardine tin in the morning means you're rudely pushing against someone.
Riders are understandably tense and grumpy.
Half the passengers were elderly Cantonese heading into Chinatown, the rest were commuters going to work in the financial district.
When we stopped at Stockton Street, the old Toishanese gentleman behind me loudly addressed the bus.
"Your attention now please! All Chinese get off bus here. Everyone with blonde or brown hair have to stay behind, go work, pay lotsa taxes, and support the government, big corporations, war in Iraq. Thank you!"
It lightened the mood considerably.
Probably exactly what he intended.
And the bus was much less full when it started moving again also.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
For two decades we were in a relationship.
That ended over a year ago.
We're still living together because we still like each other, and we trust each other.
We get along rather well.
I'm white and a little deaf.
She's Chinese and remarkably soft spoken - which most Cantonese people are not.
Yesterday I heard her say "I'm starting to really dislike white pubes".
You can imagine my surprise. Twenty years with me.
And she's now seeing another Caucasian guy.
Bit late for that to be an issue.
"I'm starting to dislike white pubes"
I can somewhat understand the sentiment, but it does seem a little strange.
You might think that she would've had that stark realization before now.
Maybe she saw the two exhibitionists that join protests in this city?
They're unmistakably white, and visually unrewarding.
That could've been the final drop.
As it turns out, she didn't mean 'white pubes'.
What she actually said was "white Buddhists".
You know, Caucasians going all gooey spiritual and sh*t.
Mantras, chanting, beads, butterflies, and all kinds of meaningful.
I don't know if I should be glad it wasn't what I thought.
White Buddhists are far worse than most white pubes.
Some white pubes are kind of nice.
Won't get too detailed, but...
We can all agree on that.
"I'M TALKING STOP SNEEZING!"
Simple, straightforward, and utterly berserk. Obviously, if the child is sneezing when the mother is speaking to it, the child is doing it deliberately. Disobedient!
The woman then accused the kid of learning that in school.
Sneezing classes, hah!
Teenagers!
YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE!
The bus going into the downtown was absolutely packed, we were jammed in cheek to jowl. Every time somebody need to get off they had to struggle to get to the door. Morning bus rides are an adventure. Heck, just trying to breathe on the municipal sardine tin in the morning means you're rudely pushing against someone.
Riders are understandably tense and grumpy.
Half the passengers were elderly Cantonese heading into Chinatown, the rest were commuters going to work in the financial district.
When we stopped at Stockton Street, the old Toishanese gentleman behind me loudly addressed the bus.
"Your attention now please! All Chinese get off bus here. Everyone with blonde or brown hair have to stay behind, go work, pay lotsa taxes, and support the government, big corporations, war in Iraq. Thank you!"
It lightened the mood considerably.
Probably exactly what he intended.
And the bus was much less full when it started moving again also.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
MALAYSIA, BERKELEY, BIGOTS, AND, GENERALLY SPEAKING, AN APPRECIATION
A few years ago I wrote a post that, upon revisiting, I realized was far too mild and bland.
Still, worth considering again, and rereading it might give you a nice warm feeling.
You deserve that.
I'm all about nice warm feelings.
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2009/04/trolls-with-keyboards.html
Referenced directly or otherwise were Dick Becker, tightly clenched Lily Haskell, Yaman Salahi, Barbara Lubin, Finkelstein, Mahathir Mohamad, and Joe Stalin.
Nothing but love, babies, nothing but love.
Both Malaysia and Berkeley are pretty ghastly places, and while Berkeley does have less rape, incest, and casual abuse of small animals than Malaysia, the food is far worse and the natives are much more likely to be tattooed savages.
On the plus side, however, it's easier to get to, and Mahathir Mohamad doesn't live there.
Both places are also unbearably precious and full of themselves.
Whether either place is better than Pakistan is debatable.
Again, feel the love.
Nice and warm.
Chihuahuas.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Still, worth considering again, and rereading it might give you a nice warm feeling.
You deserve that.
I'm all about nice warm feelings.
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2009/04/trolls-with-keyboards.html
Referenced directly or otherwise were Dick Becker, tightly clenched Lily Haskell, Yaman Salahi, Barbara Lubin, Finkelstein, Mahathir Mohamad, and Joe Stalin.
Nothing but love, babies, nothing but love.
Both Malaysia and Berkeley are pretty ghastly places, and while Berkeley does have less rape, incest, and casual abuse of small animals than Malaysia, the food is far worse and the natives are much more likely to be tattooed savages.
On the plus side, however, it's easier to get to, and Mahathir Mohamad doesn't live there.
Both places are also unbearably precious and full of themselves.
Whether either place is better than Pakistan is debatable.
Again, feel the love.
Nice and warm.
Chihuahuas.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
BINAH MAGAZINE VERSUS "I LOVE ALGEBRA!"
Simply put, women who excel at trigonometry and geometry are hot.
As well as history, geography, chemistry.......
Bina magazine, in a staggeringly misguided article last week, asked "are we teaching our girls too much".
The thought process informing that insane question is frightening.
Girls who can hold their own in serious classes are quite literally the best things on this planet. Far better they can do equations than dye their hair or paint their nails.
Female-children who have a hard time with real subjects will most likely take home ec and get tattoos in their late teens.
Perhaps coinciding with a premature pregnancy.
Frankly, when I think staggeringly hot teenager through thirty-something, automatically I think of a woman who can hold her own in an argument about mediaeval French, and make attrocious puns involving algebraic equations.
Sweetheat, whisper complicated scientific terms into my ear.
Oooooh!
I'm melting.
I'll settle for someone who "gets" Abelard and Heloise, or giggles over the phrase "existential angst".
If she also thinks "V for Vendetta" was garbage, so much the better.
Shalom Beis is based on having a sparring partner.
Not on living with an idiot.
Despite what some verkrampte alte nudnikim might think.
Nothing is more desirable than a sweet young thing lithping complicated scientific terms......
And knowing EXACTLY what they mean.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
As well as history, geography, chemistry.......
Bina magazine, in a staggeringly misguided article last week, asked "are we teaching our girls too much".
The thought process informing that insane question is frightening.
Girls who can hold their own in serious classes are quite literally the best things on this planet. Far better they can do equations than dye their hair or paint their nails.
Female-children who have a hard time with real subjects will most likely take home ec and get tattoos in their late teens.
Perhaps coinciding with a premature pregnancy.
Frankly, when I think staggeringly hot teenager through thirty-something, automatically I think of a woman who can hold her own in an argument about mediaeval French, and make attrocious puns involving algebraic equations.
Sweetheat, whisper complicated scientific terms into my ear.
Oooooh!
I'm melting.
I'll settle for someone who "gets" Abelard and Heloise, or giggles over the phrase "existential angst".
If she also thinks "V for Vendetta" was garbage, so much the better.
Shalom Beis is based on having a sparring partner.
Not on living with an idiot.
Despite what some verkrampte alte nudnikim might think.
Nothing is more desirable than a sweet young thing lithping complicated scientific terms......
And knowing EXACTLY what they mean.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, September 12, 2011
THE APPLES OF MY EYE
One of the things I miss is the apple tree that grew in our courtyard. The apples weren’t especially good, but the tree was old and beautiful. Every spring the falling petals would blanket the bricks, forming drifts that swirled around in the breeze, and every autumn the fruits would fall and need to be swept up. From late September through the end of October the aroma of ripe fruit would be a constant ghost in the nostrils, perfuming what are now just memories.
[Our dog would doze in spring sunlight, amidst the white fluff, which would breeze-borne cover her till only her nose was still visible.]
The people who bought the house after we left almost certainly considered chopping down the tree. Fruit trees are so old hat, you know.
The modern Dutch villager despises such unclean and useless clutterings.
Their parents and grandparents planted fruit trees all over the place, relishing the yearly offerings. The children and grandchildren get rid of them, because after all it is so much more up-to-date to purchase fresh fruit from a nice clean supermarket.
Such people also dock the tails of their dogs.
It’s the modern thing to do.
The crop that our apple tree yielded made excellent apple sauce, and had I known at that time how to make pies, I am sure that they would have been memorable. Firm fruit, dense and textural, that would have stood up well.
The apples that one buys at the store are not even half as good.
[But the apple turn-overs and apple pastries made by the local baker were excellent. Yeast-dough, oven set ablaze while it was still dark, and arthritic hands kneading and rolling. We had his pastries every Sunday.
Yes, I fondly remember his hands. Lovely.]
The one thing that tastes sweeter than the apples that grow behind your own dwelling are, naturally, the apples on someone else’s property.
Consider it a tax levied by the neighborhood.
Even adults would, if sufficiently tempted, raid someone else’s yard.
Who can resist such beautiful fruits?
They make each autumn glow.
It’s an aesthetic thing.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[Our dog would doze in spring sunlight, amidst the white fluff, which would breeze-borne cover her till only her nose was still visible.]
The people who bought the house after we left almost certainly considered chopping down the tree. Fruit trees are so old hat, you know.
The modern Dutch villager despises such unclean and useless clutterings.
Their parents and grandparents planted fruit trees all over the place, relishing the yearly offerings. The children and grandchildren get rid of them, because after all it is so much more up-to-date to purchase fresh fruit from a nice clean supermarket.
Such people also dock the tails of their dogs.
It’s the modern thing to do.
The crop that our apple tree yielded made excellent apple sauce, and had I known at that time how to make pies, I am sure that they would have been memorable. Firm fruit, dense and textural, that would have stood up well.
The apples that one buys at the store are not even half as good.
[But the apple turn-overs and apple pastries made by the local baker were excellent. Yeast-dough, oven set ablaze while it was still dark, and arthritic hands kneading and rolling. We had his pastries every Sunday.
Yes, I fondly remember his hands. Lovely.]
The one thing that tastes sweeter than the apples that grow behind your own dwelling are, naturally, the apples on someone else’s property.
Consider it a tax levied by the neighborhood.
Even adults would, if sufficiently tempted, raid someone else’s yard.
Who can resist such beautiful fruits?
They make each autumn glow.
It’s an aesthetic thing.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, September 11, 2011
IF YOU WERE JEWISH
Kashrus would prevent you sharing what I just ate.
Steamed pork meatballs with bacon and shrimpaste over shrimp roe noodles.
But if you were really Jewish, you wouldn't mind.
Kashrus exists as a stratagem to maintain the distinction among the nations.
I would've already bored you with my ancestry - Dutch Calvinist settlers in New Amsterdam and Ulster Presbyterians getting the heck out of Anglostan - and the differences, while valid and vibrant, would not mean much.
The distinction is already there.
In more ways than one.
Eating together does not necessarily mean eating the same thing.
Just like sitting in the same pro-Israel booth at the "Solano Stroll" does not mean seeing "eye to eye".
I saw some very lovely teenage legs. Good heavens. Delicious. Are those girls even of drinking age?
What you saw was next week's parsha. You swatted the trop.
Whereas I was appreciating the design esthetics and fine judgement of the master of the universe in the passing crowd.
The Sfas Emes encourages us to not see, and not hear, when seeing and hearing might prove problematic.
Your eyes and ears are the watchmen of your mind.
Mine are..... bribable.
The Sfas Emes was wise. But some of us are, dare we say it, somewhat perverse.
It was a lovely day in Berkeley and Albany.
I had forgotten how luscious teenagers can look.
At several intervals, I forced myself to stare to the side.
In consequence, I saw more of the Morris Dancers than a sane man is supposed to......
But far less that would give me disturbing dreams.
At all times, I am in control of what I see, what I hear.
Good heavens, the master of the universe did some mighty fine stuff.
In no way involving Morris Dancers.
Praise the handiwork.
I cannot find anything good to say about Morris Dancers. But all things considered, they have a place.
Shan't dream of them.
I'm certain some of those other thighs were Jewish.
Kol hakavod.
Verdomme, da' was lekker.
Moises rabbeinu!
Mooi!
Yes, I am a dirty old man.
But it's well-thought-out filth.
Philosophy!
Being a pervert is a matter of personal hashkofo.
Deal with it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Steamed pork meatballs with bacon and shrimpaste over shrimp roe noodles.
But if you were really Jewish, you wouldn't mind.
Kashrus exists as a stratagem to maintain the distinction among the nations.
I would've already bored you with my ancestry - Dutch Calvinist settlers in New Amsterdam and Ulster Presbyterians getting the heck out of Anglostan - and the differences, while valid and vibrant, would not mean much.
The distinction is already there.
In more ways than one.
Eating together does not necessarily mean eating the same thing.
Just like sitting in the same pro-Israel booth at the "Solano Stroll" does not mean seeing "eye to eye".
I saw some very lovely teenage legs. Good heavens. Delicious. Are those girls even of drinking age?
What you saw was next week's parsha. You swatted the trop.
Whereas I was appreciating the design esthetics and fine judgement of the master of the universe in the passing crowd.
The Sfas Emes encourages us to not see, and not hear, when seeing and hearing might prove problematic.
Your eyes and ears are the watchmen of your mind.
Mine are..... bribable.
The Sfas Emes was wise. But some of us are, dare we say it, somewhat perverse.
It was a lovely day in Berkeley and Albany.
I had forgotten how luscious teenagers can look.
At several intervals, I forced myself to stare to the side.
In consequence, I saw more of the Morris Dancers than a sane man is supposed to......
But far less that would give me disturbing dreams.
At all times, I am in control of what I see, what I hear.
Good heavens, the master of the universe did some mighty fine stuff.
In no way involving Morris Dancers.
Praise the handiwork.
I cannot find anything good to say about Morris Dancers. But all things considered, they have a place.
Shan't dream of them.
I'm certain some of those other thighs were Jewish.
Kol hakavod.
Verdomme, da' was lekker.
Moises rabbeinu!
Mooi!
Yes, I am a dirty old man.
But it's well-thought-out filth.
Philosophy!
Being a pervert is a matter of personal hashkofo.
Deal with it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, September 10, 2011
PROUD TO BE A RACIST, A SEXIST, AND ABOVE ALL, A BORING SNOB
A real-world conversation recently demonstrated to me that talking with most people is almost inevitably both pointless and frustrating.
Mind you, the other party is a nice enough person. So I guess it's not her fault.
And I've known her for a few years now so I should know what to expect.
The problem is that she is a typical product of modern American society. Which means that she is shallow, badly informed, mal-educated and rather unimaginative.
Despite graduating college, and notwithstanding a rich vocabulary.
Her knowledge of history, geography, and literature is depressingly meager. Like most American women born since the sixties, of whatever race or cultural origin, she clearly reads little more than text messages, hallmark cards, and product information.
About the only field in which I will give her credit is parenting, and that primarily because as far as I know her juvenile dependent has neither committed murder nor engaged in scandalous sexual practices with a vast multitude while under the influence.
Kudos.
I am not a parent, so I must necessarily be impressed.
Nevertheless, I would prefer not to run into her type in bars.
Her type being female.
I used to like hanging out in gay bars that catered to a mature audience, because neither women, nor people fascinated by sports, would likely frequent such places. One could have a conversation with someone, or politely decline and just sit in the corner daydreaming over a cocktail. The dynamic was very different, you see.
And you can't really people-watch women, because they will take it personally.
Unfortunately there are far fewer of such places, social norms have changed a bit.
Women, really, have no place in drinking holes. They add too much tension, and often do not understand that if one does not talk to them, it isn't rude rejection (merely inattention to their egomania), and if one does talk to them, it isn't because they are such fascinating creatures good heavens, but more likely because they are there and appear to be breathing.
For a woman to truly be a fascinating creature, she has to be an imaginative conversationalist. Merely having feminine characteristics IS NOT ENOUGH.
Even if, especially if, there's a courtship edge to the conversation.
Talk, in such a case, is a testing of the waters for both parties.
As I've explained to an old friend who cannot understand why I am still single so long after the break-up with Savage Kitten, it's a question of what you would do together the rest of the time?
If social and intellectual interchange is impossible, you have no business getting involved with that person in the first place.
That holds for both genders, and ALL relationships, not just sexual ones.
There are, unfortunately, many women who are under the false impression that they are either boomba blondes or hot Asian chicks, and therefore need nothing else to be fascinating company.
I'll gladly admit that visual appeal is wonderful - but if knowledge is lacking and the character is defective, what on earth is the point?
I might as well be talking to my shoe.
My best conversations are either via the written word, or on the telephone with invisible people several hundred miles away. What they say is often fascinating and insightful. They aren't counting on their curves or bedroom eyes for effect, there is hardly even a remote possibility that we will ever meet, and age differences are frequently immaterial.
Many of these people are men. At least 50% of them, I'd guess.
What we have in common are similarities of cultural background.
As evinced by reading material referenced or cited.
Usually such conversations are in English.
Sometimes foreign words crop up.
Not needing explanation.
Boruch Hashem.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Mind you, the other party is a nice enough person. So I guess it's not her fault.
And I've known her for a few years now so I should know what to expect.
The problem is that she is a typical product of modern American society. Which means that she is shallow, badly informed, mal-educated and rather unimaginative.
Despite graduating college, and notwithstanding a rich vocabulary.
Her knowledge of history, geography, and literature is depressingly meager. Like most American women born since the sixties, of whatever race or cultural origin, she clearly reads little more than text messages, hallmark cards, and product information.
About the only field in which I will give her credit is parenting, and that primarily because as far as I know her juvenile dependent has neither committed murder nor engaged in scandalous sexual practices with a vast multitude while under the influence.
Kudos.
I am not a parent, so I must necessarily be impressed.
Nevertheless, I would prefer not to run into her type in bars.
Her type being female.
I used to like hanging out in gay bars that catered to a mature audience, because neither women, nor people fascinated by sports, would likely frequent such places. One could have a conversation with someone, or politely decline and just sit in the corner daydreaming over a cocktail. The dynamic was very different, you see.
And you can't really people-watch women, because they will take it personally.
Unfortunately there are far fewer of such places, social norms have changed a bit.
Women, really, have no place in drinking holes. They add too much tension, and often do not understand that if one does not talk to them, it isn't rude rejection (merely inattention to their egomania), and if one does talk to them, it isn't because they are such fascinating creatures good heavens, but more likely because they are there and appear to be breathing.
For a woman to truly be a fascinating creature, she has to be an imaginative conversationalist. Merely having feminine characteristics IS NOT ENOUGH.
Even if, especially if, there's a courtship edge to the conversation.
Talk, in such a case, is a testing of the waters for both parties.
As I've explained to an old friend who cannot understand why I am still single so long after the break-up with Savage Kitten, it's a question of what you would do together the rest of the time?
If social and intellectual interchange is impossible, you have no business getting involved with that person in the first place.
That holds for both genders, and ALL relationships, not just sexual ones.
There are, unfortunately, many women who are under the false impression that they are either boomba blondes or hot Asian chicks, and therefore need nothing else to be fascinating company.
I'll gladly admit that visual appeal is wonderful - but if knowledge is lacking and the character is defective, what on earth is the point?
I might as well be talking to my shoe.
My best conversations are either via the written word, or on the telephone with invisible people several hundred miles away. What they say is often fascinating and insightful. They aren't counting on their curves or bedroom eyes for effect, there is hardly even a remote possibility that we will ever meet, and age differences are frequently immaterial.
Many of these people are men. At least 50% of them, I'd guess.
What we have in common are similarities of cultural background.
As evinced by reading material referenced or cited.
Usually such conversations are in English.
Sometimes foreign words crop up.
Not needing explanation.
Boruch Hashem.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, September 09, 2011
ITALIAN SAUSAGE AND ASPARAGUS STEAMED EGGS
It wasn't kosher, but with minor changes it could be.
Some Chinese might shy away from it because it contained non-standard ingredients and chilies.
Many WASPS ('White Anglo-Saxon Protestants') probably wouldn't eat it because they turn up their nose at everything.
Most Dutch people would never touch it because they wouldn't know what to make of it, and the cook is an American, so it just cannot possibly be edible.
It tasted fine.
意大利香腸蒸水蛋
YITAAILEI HEUNG-CHEUNG TSING SOEI DAN
[Gestoomde klits-ei met Italiaansch gehakt.]
3 large eggs.
¾ cup of water, or slightly more.
¾ of an Italian sausage, de-skinned.
Six to eight stalks of asparagus, cut and blanched.
Drizzle sesame oil.
Drizzle olive oil.
Dash soy sauce.
Dash fish sauce.
Hefty squeeze of lime juice.
Plenty of minced scallion and cilantro.
One or two sliced Jalapeño chilies.
Mash the Italian sausage thoroughly with the eggs, then add in the water and whisk till smoothly blended with little bits of the meat evenly dispersed throughout.
Add the asparagus, re-whisk.
Pour it into a large greased pyrex pie dish and steam it for ten minutes.
While it is cooking, stir the sesame oil, olive oil, soy sauce, and fish sauce with the scallion, cilantro, and chilies, bruising the green stuff slightly to free the flavours.
One or two minutes before the end of cooking, distribute this over the top of the steaming dish.
好普通既家常菜
SIMPLE HOME-STYLE COOKING
The addition of water to the egg in equal or greater measure ensures a light and easily digestible 'custard', and steamed water egg dishes are among the easiest of Cantonese home-cooked dishes to make. Very satisfying!
Along with a clear soup, plain white rice, and some stirfried baby bokchoi, and you have a simple meal.
You could even cook some mussels with garlic and fermented black beans if you wanted a feast......
But that would require a few more people around the table.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Some Chinese might shy away from it because it contained non-standard ingredients and chilies.
Many WASPS ('White Anglo-Saxon Protestants') probably wouldn't eat it because they turn up their nose at everything.
Most Dutch people would never touch it because they wouldn't know what to make of it, and the cook is an American, so it just cannot possibly be edible.
It tasted fine.
意大利香腸蒸水蛋
YITAAILEI HEUNG-CHEUNG TSING SOEI DAN
[Gestoomde klits-ei met Italiaansch gehakt.]
3 large eggs.
¾ cup of water, or slightly more.
¾ of an Italian sausage, de-skinned.
Six to eight stalks of asparagus, cut and blanched.
Drizzle sesame oil.
Drizzle olive oil.
Dash soy sauce.
Dash fish sauce.
Hefty squeeze of lime juice.
Plenty of minced scallion and cilantro.
One or two sliced Jalapeño chilies.
Mash the Italian sausage thoroughly with the eggs, then add in the water and whisk till smoothly blended with little bits of the meat evenly dispersed throughout.
Add the asparagus, re-whisk.
Pour it into a large greased pyrex pie dish and steam it for ten minutes.
While it is cooking, stir the sesame oil, olive oil, soy sauce, and fish sauce with the scallion, cilantro, and chilies, bruising the green stuff slightly to free the flavours.
One or two minutes before the end of cooking, distribute this over the top of the steaming dish.
好普通既家常菜
SIMPLE HOME-STYLE COOKING
The addition of water to the egg in equal or greater measure ensures a light and easily digestible 'custard', and steamed water egg dishes are among the easiest of Cantonese home-cooked dishes to make. Very satisfying!
Along with a clear soup, plain white rice, and some stirfried baby bokchoi, and you have a simple meal.
You could even cook some mussels with garlic and fermented black beans if you wanted a feast......
But that would require a few more people around the table.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, September 08, 2011
YENIDJE
Much of the mystique surrounding the term 'Yenidje' as used by Sobranie of London revolves around a Turkish tobacco which allegedly gave the product a rare perfume, a sweetness, and a resinous quality.
And part of the problem in correctly identifying that leaf lies in the name itself. Yenidje simply means "new settlement" or "new village".
[The term 'Turkish' refers to all tobaccos grown within the Ottoman sphere, including the Balkans, all of Asia Minor, the Levant, Persia, the Black Sea regions, and Egypt. Nowadays it generally is applied to small-leaf tobacco grown in a Mediterranean climate which is comparatively low in nicotine and possesses a grassy fragrance.
Turkish tobaccos, generally speaking, are a labour intensive crop that varies considerably from region to region and from soil type to soil type.]
So what is 'yenidje'?
YENIDJE
Giannitsa in Greece is in Macedonia near where Alexander the Great was born.
Gennisea in Xanthi is near the border with Bulgaria.
Yanitsa ('yeni shehir': new city) in Thessaly is now named Larissa.
Yenice in Çanakkale Province of Turkey is opposite Gallipoli at the entrance to the Dardanelles.
Yenice in Karabük Province is in the north, just south of the Black Sea.
Yenice in Mersin Province is in the south on the Mediterranean Sea, near Hatay.
These aren't the only Yenidjes of record. In fact, almost everywhere in the Turkic world, including Central Asia and the Balkans, Yenidje in various spellings littered the land.
Tobacco is grown or traded in all of the places named above. Yenidje could therefore mean Macedonian, Bulgarian, Xanthi, Samsoun, something akin to Smyrna, or something else entirely.
NOTE: for an earlier mention of Yenidje on this blog, see this link: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2008/08/balkan-sobranie-postscript.html.
Mentioned in regards to Balkan Sobranie.
BALKAN
By the late nineteenth century the Balkan region was split among different powers and divided along ethnic, religious, and linguistic lines. Ottoman Turkey, the Austro-Hungarians, Greece, and Russia either ruled outright or meddled in each others' bailiwicks, and intrigue in St. Petersburg, Vienna, Athens, and Constantinople often had consequences in local affairs.
With the Serbians and Russians taking sides in the Macedonian question and the Bulgarian National Revival, the Southern Balkans became of interest also to Russian revolutionaries.
Add the ambitions of the Italians and the Germans, and it is easy to see why the region was an irresistible political tinderbox.
David Redstone of Sobranie Ltd. was originally Dovid Roitenshtein (or Roitenshtern) from Odessa, a political troublemaker who emigrated to England in 1907 following stints in jail for anti-Czarist activity, and subsequently Anglified his name like relatives who preceded him in London.
After a number of years in the tobacco trade on behalf of others, he established a name not only for pipe mixtures, but also for excellent Russian and Turkish cigarettes.
Since words in his hands were both political and cultural more than dryly factual, there is little reason to assume that the term 'Yenidje' meant either a dominant ingredient or an actual specific origin.
Prilep and Yaka tobaccos were cultivated in Macedonia since before 1873 when the Ottoman Tobacco Monopoly started processing crops locally for export, and were I a betting man I would wager that the term Yenidje as used by Sobranie of London (established 1879) was meant to differentiate Balkan tobaccos from Orientals grown further south (Turkey), or even as a marketing gimmick, rather than to identify the main leaf in the blend.
It is quite possible that the term Yenidje was useful to distinguish this 'newer' Macedonian leaf from other more established 'Turkish' varieties.
[The Ottoman Tobacco Monopoly was one of the institutions created to increase revenue in the interests of satisfying foreign banks and whittling down the enormous national debt. Tobacco was one of the few crops in demand for export. Under their aegis, growing areas were expanded, and processing improved.]
Given that geographic source terms such as Turkish, Virginia, and Burley have long referred to three separate styles of tobacco and are used quite generically, except on a certificate of provenance 'Yenidje' might be nearly meaningless in any case.
[Virginia: flue-cured; the tobacco leaf is killed and fast dried in heated barns, which preserves the natural sugars yielding a sweet medium strength leaf. Burley: air-cured, originally from Kentucky and Tennessee; the leaf is dried outdoors, maintaining nicotine and certain chocolate-like flavours. Maryland and Caporal are close relatives of Burley which are often steamed under pressure till dark to further develop the taste.
Nowadays Turkish is used primarily for Greek, Cyprian, Turkish and Levantine tobaccos that are not Latakia.
Latakia, formerly tobacco from the port of that name in Syria, now also comes from Cyprus. What differentiates Turkish from Latakia is the curing process, Latakia being a smoke-cured leaf that is dark, tarry, and crumbly because of the incorporated soot. Both types fall under the heading of Oriental Tobacco - which doesn't include Indonesian leaf, Virginia or Burley grown in India, Thailand, or Indo-China, or the thin and acrid tasting Chinese crops. Russian tobacco can be any one of these types, or even some nasty greenish-black shag of unidentifiable origin, depending on region and process.]
With all that in mind, you will surely understand my interest upon once again opening a tin from McClelland's 'Grand Orientals' series, even though I've smoked the product in question before.
YENIDJE SUPREME
[GRAND ORIENTALS, by McCLELLAND]
Tin blurb: "The finest of Xanthi in this blend comes from the best original Yenidje growing area of Western Thrace. These small, delicately aromatic, top leaves from the mountains (Djebel) and lower slopes (Yaka) have been renowned for their sweet, mild, fresh flavor and delicately tangy aroma since the 1600s. This blend is designed to demonstrate why this particular Xanthi is known as "The Queen of Tobaccos."
Even after leaving the tin open for several hours, the reek of that vinegary treatment to which McClelland is addicted is almost unbearable. Surely there are better mold-retardants and bug repellents than British sweatsocks?
I've often thought that the presence of acetic acid narrows the flavour spectrum of many McClelland products, almost killing those tobaccos which are furthest from fully fermented Virginias.
It is especially objectionable in something that purports to have a "delicately tangy aroma".
The appearance of this blend is of small shreds of medium brown and darker hues, the amalgamation likely steamed to meld the flavours.
Taste-wise, it is a smoke that induces contemplation, and while the pong of vinegar in the tin is unacceptable, when lit little thereof is even noticeable, especially if smoked with a steady pace. Instead, there is an old-fashioned quality that promotes peacefulness.
You should not smoke this if you are a nervous or easily agitated person.
It has a pleasant real tobacco taste all the way down, due to the inclusion of other leaves in the blend. Enough nicotine to satisfy, nowhere near enough to knock your sock off. But if you are smoking this, that isn't what you wanted anyhow.
Reduces to a velvety ash, only slightly gritty.
Rather reminiscent of Virginia Woods, though much more like McClelland's Orient 996. Both of those also contain red Virginia. The smoker of paler tobaccos will find the first a good companion to Yenidje Supreme, the aficionado of darker Orientals will favour the latter in rotation with it.
Goes well with black coffee.
This is not a tobacco for a talkative man. If I were still employed in draughting, this would be perfect to smoke at the office..... if one could still smoke at the office.
Quite possibly my father would have liked it.
I shall have to try it in his old Canadians during a quiet weekend.
AFTERTHOUGHT: TOUTOUN
Most of the lower grades of Turkish leaves, irrespective of country where they are grown, are destined to become cigarettes, and will consequently be treated much like American tobaccos. Usually the factories will augment the sugar-content and steam or toast the leaf to make it fit the flavour-profile expected by smokers, who since the Second World War have been exposed to 'Anglo-Saxon' preferences.
Where formerly there was a large market for the Turkish taste, especially in Central Europe, most brands now cater to smokers of blonde leaf. Exceptions are elderly fossils, hinterland peasants, and intolerable eccentrics - but other than the French and Mittel-Europeaner, these are not a large audience.
Pure 'Oriental' cigarettes are a specialty market. Pretty much the only things that can be said for mass-produced smokes is that both nicotine and sugar will be present; the one for the addictive hit, the other for the smooth taste.
Pipe tobacco is, of course, another story.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And part of the problem in correctly identifying that leaf lies in the name itself. Yenidje simply means "new settlement" or "new village".
[The term 'Turkish' refers to all tobaccos grown within the Ottoman sphere, including the Balkans, all of Asia Minor, the Levant, Persia, the Black Sea regions, and Egypt. Nowadays it generally is applied to small-leaf tobacco grown in a Mediterranean climate which is comparatively low in nicotine and possesses a grassy fragrance.
Turkish tobaccos, generally speaking, are a labour intensive crop that varies considerably from region to region and from soil type to soil type.]
So what is 'yenidje'?
YENIDJE
Giannitsa in Greece is in Macedonia near where Alexander the Great was born.
Gennisea in Xanthi is near the border with Bulgaria.
Yanitsa ('yeni shehir': new city) in Thessaly is now named Larissa.
Yenice in Çanakkale Province of Turkey is opposite Gallipoli at the entrance to the Dardanelles.
Yenice in Karabük Province is in the north, just south of the Black Sea.
Yenice in Mersin Province is in the south on the Mediterranean Sea, near Hatay.
These aren't the only Yenidjes of record. In fact, almost everywhere in the Turkic world, including Central Asia and the Balkans, Yenidje in various spellings littered the land.
Tobacco is grown or traded in all of the places named above. Yenidje could therefore mean Macedonian, Bulgarian, Xanthi, Samsoun, something akin to Smyrna, or something else entirely.
NOTE: for an earlier mention of Yenidje on this blog, see this link: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2008/08/balkan-sobranie-postscript.html.
Mentioned in regards to Balkan Sobranie.
BALKAN
By the late nineteenth century the Balkan region was split among different powers and divided along ethnic, religious, and linguistic lines. Ottoman Turkey, the Austro-Hungarians, Greece, and Russia either ruled outright or meddled in each others' bailiwicks, and intrigue in St. Petersburg, Vienna, Athens, and Constantinople often had consequences in local affairs.
With the Serbians and Russians taking sides in the Macedonian question and the Bulgarian National Revival, the Southern Balkans became of interest also to Russian revolutionaries.
Add the ambitions of the Italians and the Germans, and it is easy to see why the region was an irresistible political tinderbox.
David Redstone of Sobranie Ltd. was originally Dovid Roitenshtein (or Roitenshtern) from Odessa, a political troublemaker who emigrated to England in 1907 following stints in jail for anti-Czarist activity, and subsequently Anglified his name like relatives who preceded him in London.
After a number of years in the tobacco trade on behalf of others, he established a name not only for pipe mixtures, but also for excellent Russian and Turkish cigarettes.
Since words in his hands were both political and cultural more than dryly factual, there is little reason to assume that the term 'Yenidje' meant either a dominant ingredient or an actual specific origin.
Prilep and Yaka tobaccos were cultivated in Macedonia since before 1873 when the Ottoman Tobacco Monopoly started processing crops locally for export, and were I a betting man I would wager that the term Yenidje as used by Sobranie of London (established 1879) was meant to differentiate Balkan tobaccos from Orientals grown further south (Turkey), or even as a marketing gimmick, rather than to identify the main leaf in the blend.
It is quite possible that the term Yenidje was useful to distinguish this 'newer' Macedonian leaf from other more established 'Turkish' varieties.
[The Ottoman Tobacco Monopoly was one of the institutions created to increase revenue in the interests of satisfying foreign banks and whittling down the enormous national debt. Tobacco was one of the few crops in demand for export. Under their aegis, growing areas were expanded, and processing improved.]
Given that geographic source terms such as Turkish, Virginia, and Burley have long referred to three separate styles of tobacco and are used quite generically, except on a certificate of provenance 'Yenidje' might be nearly meaningless in any case.
[Virginia: flue-cured; the tobacco leaf is killed and fast dried in heated barns, which preserves the natural sugars yielding a sweet medium strength leaf. Burley: air-cured, originally from Kentucky and Tennessee; the leaf is dried outdoors, maintaining nicotine and certain chocolate-like flavours. Maryland and Caporal are close relatives of Burley which are often steamed under pressure till dark to further develop the taste.
Nowadays Turkish is used primarily for Greek, Cyprian, Turkish and Levantine tobaccos that are not Latakia.
Latakia, formerly tobacco from the port of that name in Syria, now also comes from Cyprus. What differentiates Turkish from Latakia is the curing process, Latakia being a smoke-cured leaf that is dark, tarry, and crumbly because of the incorporated soot. Both types fall under the heading of Oriental Tobacco - which doesn't include Indonesian leaf, Virginia or Burley grown in India, Thailand, or Indo-China, or the thin and acrid tasting Chinese crops. Russian tobacco can be any one of these types, or even some nasty greenish-black shag of unidentifiable origin, depending on region and process.]
With all that in mind, you will surely understand my interest upon once again opening a tin from McClelland's 'Grand Orientals' series, even though I've smoked the product in question before.
YENIDJE SUPREME
[GRAND ORIENTALS, by McCLELLAND]
Tin blurb: "The finest of Xanthi in this blend comes from the best original Yenidje growing area of Western Thrace. These small, delicately aromatic, top leaves from the mountains (Djebel) and lower slopes (Yaka) have been renowned for their sweet, mild, fresh flavor and delicately tangy aroma since the 1600s. This blend is designed to demonstrate why this particular Xanthi is known as "The Queen of Tobaccos."
Even after leaving the tin open for several hours, the reek of that vinegary treatment to which McClelland is addicted is almost unbearable. Surely there are better mold-retardants and bug repellents than British sweatsocks?
I've often thought that the presence of acetic acid narrows the flavour spectrum of many McClelland products, almost killing those tobaccos which are furthest from fully fermented Virginias.
It is especially objectionable in something that purports to have a "delicately tangy aroma".
The appearance of this blend is of small shreds of medium brown and darker hues, the amalgamation likely steamed to meld the flavours.
Taste-wise, it is a smoke that induces contemplation, and while the pong of vinegar in the tin is unacceptable, when lit little thereof is even noticeable, especially if smoked with a steady pace. Instead, there is an old-fashioned quality that promotes peacefulness.
You should not smoke this if you are a nervous or easily agitated person.
It has a pleasant real tobacco taste all the way down, due to the inclusion of other leaves in the blend. Enough nicotine to satisfy, nowhere near enough to knock your sock off. But if you are smoking this, that isn't what you wanted anyhow.
Reduces to a velvety ash, only slightly gritty.
Rather reminiscent of Virginia Woods, though much more like McClelland's Orient 996. Both of those also contain red Virginia. The smoker of paler tobaccos will find the first a good companion to Yenidje Supreme, the aficionado of darker Orientals will favour the latter in rotation with it.
Goes well with black coffee.
This is not a tobacco for a talkative man. If I were still employed in draughting, this would be perfect to smoke at the office..... if one could still smoke at the office.
Quite possibly my father would have liked it.
I shall have to try it in his old Canadians during a quiet weekend.
AFTERTHOUGHT: TOUTOUN
Most of the lower grades of Turkish leaves, irrespective of country where they are grown, are destined to become cigarettes, and will consequently be treated much like American tobaccos. Usually the factories will augment the sugar-content and steam or toast the leaf to make it fit the flavour-profile expected by smokers, who since the Second World War have been exposed to 'Anglo-Saxon' preferences.
Where formerly there was a large market for the Turkish taste, especially in Central Europe, most brands now cater to smokers of blonde leaf. Exceptions are elderly fossils, hinterland peasants, and intolerable eccentrics - but other than the French and Mittel-Europeaner, these are not a large audience.
Pure 'Oriental' cigarettes are a specialty market. Pretty much the only things that can be said for mass-produced smokes is that both nicotine and sugar will be present; the one for the addictive hit, the other for the smooth taste.
Pipe tobacco is, of course, another story.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
FACEBOOK, HONG KONG GIRLS, HANDBAGS, HELLO KITTY, AND IRMA BUCKETGUT
Like you, I have a Facebook account. But probably unlike you, mine is a potent source of vicarious weirdness. Which is a good thing, because I try to keep my real world life as sane and unexciting as possible.
Facebook stirs me in strange ways.
I am a calm man.
Facebook wishes me to have a more interesting life. To that end, it suggests 'friends' based on the slimmest of similarities, rather like Amazon suggesting purchases. Not that there is a profit motive to FB, but both internet entities have this desperate need to be relevant, as measured by how often you take their bait.
Amazon for several years has suggested Christian Apocalypse romances and handbags, based on my previous buying patterns (documentary hypothesis, textual exegesis, and a fancy watch), and Facebook has decided that I like Rabbis and Hong Kong girls.
In a way, Facebook is right.
They probably guessed Hong Kong girls because I have at times posted stuff that included Chinese phrases.
[The logical connection between Hong Kong girls and Rabbis is what both of them eat at Christmas.]
Naturally I am fascinated. The very idea of a "Hong Kong Girl" is racy and titillating. So before clicking on 'send friend request', I cruise into their Facebook pages to discover what they are like.
Apparently they have between three and five thousand friends, evenly distributed among both genders, and including people with non-Chinese names.
Who are all fascinated by their photo albums.
Which are filled with handbags.
HANDBAGS?
Sometimes also the odd photo of a motorcar, dinner at a restaurant, shoes, bracelets..... but mostly handbags. Very expensive handbags.
Sweetheart, you could have posted a photo of you and you favourite cousin on the Star Ferry, or at the top of the Peak..... Handbags?
Do handbags represent freedom, your dreams, romance, a fairy tale?
If so, why is one of them puke green?
Looks to be your favourite, too.
Two dozen pictures of it.
From different angles.
And perspectives.
Why on earth do you have so many images of handbags?
Perhaps it's your version of soft core porn?
Repressed lust and frustration?
I know there's something sexual and deeply symbolic about handbags, but for the life of me I can't figure out what.
And I really don't want to know.
I like freaks, but not that bad.
GOODBYE, KITTY!
The alternative to the handbag queens, though in lesser numbers, are the Hello Kitty types.
I like Hello Kitty too, lord knows, Hello Kitty Texas Chainsaw Punk tattoos, Hello Kitty Urinal Targets, Hello Kitty Hamburger Patties, and Hello Kitty Boxer Shorts (all to be seen at 'the Official Hello Kitty Merchandising Office') leave me breathless, but heaven's sakes, girlies, y'all have NO life if that is the summa that roils your kettles.
Yes, I have a Hello Kitty kippah, and no, I shan't send you a picture.
Actually, amidst the Handbaggers and Hello Kittens there was one young lady who wanted to do something to me or with me till I 'fly up into the heavens' (idiomatic expression), and whose handbagless photo album showed a keen familiarity with hot wax, but given that she's ten thousand miles away, doesn't look particularly bright, and made the same offer to over four thousand other folks (evenly distributed among both genders, and including people with non-Chinese names), the prospect was less than inviting.
While the intellectual conceit of passion with a non-handbag obsessed woman has a certain frisson, the realization that it would at best lead to sharing intimacy with over four thousand other victims (evenly distributed etcetera) was a distinct downer, and just knowing that some of them combine the handbag and Hello Kitty fetishes is frightening.
So no.
I shall not share your hot wax.
The reason why most men are frightened of handbags is because we do not understand them. Handbags are a potent sexual-communicative object, in that the choice of handbag conveys something about the bearer and sends an unmistakable message.
We just don't know what it is.
Portable womb? Hair? I've got baggage?
What?
The interpretive possibilities are endless.
Such random chaos and anarchy disturbs us, we prefer far simpler communication, as is embodied in the phrases 'yes', 'no', 'go away you pervert', and 'have another beer'.
Simple. Straightforward. And guaranteed to keep the dialogue flowing.
The handbag also represents a happy feeling of ownership and pride, but men will instinctively resent it precisely for that as being unfair competition. We cannot compare, because we don't have fancy buckles and straps, and we aren't covered in puke green leather.
We know we can rectify all or part of that lack, but for reasons which are strangely not obvious to women, we resist.
Puke green leather doesn't work for us.
[Neither does the Hello Kitty kippah, but I'm wearing it ironically.]
We KNOW that shlepping around the handbag radiates your desirability and makes you ecstatic. That part we grasp.
But we fail to see why we should be like that.
Puke green leather.
A leprechaun.
Not us.
Some of us shaved today. Didn't you notice?
Hey, I'm wearing clean clothes!
For entirely different reasons, most men object to Hello Kitty. That saccharine feline, with her cutesy-poo affectations, appearance, and accoutrements, does not dingle our bell in any way.
Not as an accessory, not as a decorative motif.
Eyes spaced precisely so. Bow perfectly canted to one side.
Blank emotionless expression.
No, doesn't work.
Perhaps if she were covered in puke green leather?
IRMA BUCKETGUT
One suggested FB friend can only be described as 'Irma Bucketgut'. Everything on her page indicated capacious junkfood appetite. Big, dripping, greasy fistfulls of meat shreds on a roll, tureens of cheese-flavoured mush nibbles, bacon on everything.
Pizza. Burgers. Fried chicken. Meatloaf.
The coveted 64 oz. big gulp mug.
A princess of pork chop.
Yes, she had a handbag.
As well as Hello Kitty panties.
No, she was not a Hong Kong girl.
I declined that Facebook suggestion, just like many others.
I cannot figure out what similarities Facebook assumed we had.
However, if Facebook decides that I need to be friends with a rabbi who collects handbags and Hello Kitty garbage, I may be powerless to resist.
After all, we have so much in common.
Like Chinese food.
And a kippah.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Facebook stirs me in strange ways.
I am a calm man.
Facebook wishes me to have a more interesting life. To that end, it suggests 'friends' based on the slimmest of similarities, rather like Amazon suggesting purchases. Not that there is a profit motive to FB, but both internet entities have this desperate need to be relevant, as measured by how often you take their bait.
Amazon for several years has suggested Christian Apocalypse romances and handbags, based on my previous buying patterns (documentary hypothesis, textual exegesis, and a fancy watch), and Facebook has decided that I like Rabbis and Hong Kong girls.
In a way, Facebook is right.
They probably guessed Hong Kong girls because I have at times posted stuff that included Chinese phrases.
[The logical connection between Hong Kong girls and Rabbis is what both of them eat at Christmas.]
Naturally I am fascinated. The very idea of a "Hong Kong Girl" is racy and titillating. So before clicking on 'send friend request', I cruise into their Facebook pages to discover what they are like.
Apparently they have between three and five thousand friends, evenly distributed among both genders, and including people with non-Chinese names.
Who are all fascinated by their photo albums.
Which are filled with handbags.
HANDBAGS?
Sometimes also the odd photo of a motorcar, dinner at a restaurant, shoes, bracelets..... but mostly handbags. Very expensive handbags.
Sweetheart, you could have posted a photo of you and you favourite cousin on the Star Ferry, or at the top of the Peak..... Handbags?
Do handbags represent freedom, your dreams, romance, a fairy tale?
If so, why is one of them puke green?
Looks to be your favourite, too.
Two dozen pictures of it.
From different angles.
And perspectives.
Why on earth do you have so many images of handbags?
Perhaps it's your version of soft core porn?
Repressed lust and frustration?
I know there's something sexual and deeply symbolic about handbags, but for the life of me I can't figure out what.
And I really don't want to know.
I like freaks, but not that bad.
GOODBYE, KITTY!
The alternative to the handbag queens, though in lesser numbers, are the Hello Kitty types.
I like Hello Kitty too, lord knows, Hello Kitty Texas Chainsaw Punk tattoos, Hello Kitty Urinal Targets, Hello Kitty Hamburger Patties, and Hello Kitty Boxer Shorts (all to be seen at 'the Official Hello Kitty Merchandising Office') leave me breathless, but heaven's sakes, girlies, y'all have NO life if that is the summa that roils your kettles.
Yes, I have a Hello Kitty kippah, and no, I shan't send you a picture.
Actually, amidst the Handbaggers and Hello Kittens there was one young lady who wanted to do something to me or with me till I 'fly up into the heavens' (idiomatic expression), and whose handbagless photo album showed a keen familiarity with hot wax, but given that she's ten thousand miles away, doesn't look particularly bright, and made the same offer to over four thousand other folks (evenly distributed among both genders, and including people with non-Chinese names), the prospect was less than inviting.
While the intellectual conceit of passion with a non-handbag obsessed woman has a certain frisson, the realization that it would at best lead to sharing intimacy with over four thousand other victims (evenly distributed etcetera) was a distinct downer, and just knowing that some of them combine the handbag and Hello Kitty fetishes is frightening.
So no.
I shall not share your hot wax.
The reason why most men are frightened of handbags is because we do not understand them. Handbags are a potent sexual-communicative object, in that the choice of handbag conveys something about the bearer and sends an unmistakable message.
We just don't know what it is.
Portable womb? Hair? I've got baggage?
What?
The interpretive possibilities are endless.
Such random chaos and anarchy disturbs us, we prefer far simpler communication, as is embodied in the phrases 'yes', 'no', 'go away you pervert', and 'have another beer'.
Simple. Straightforward. And guaranteed to keep the dialogue flowing.
The handbag also represents a happy feeling of ownership and pride, but men will instinctively resent it precisely for that as being unfair competition. We cannot compare, because we don't have fancy buckles and straps, and we aren't covered in puke green leather.
We know we can rectify all or part of that lack, but for reasons which are strangely not obvious to women, we resist.
Puke green leather doesn't work for us.
[Neither does the Hello Kitty kippah, but I'm wearing it ironically.]
We KNOW that shlepping around the handbag radiates your desirability and makes you ecstatic. That part we grasp.
But we fail to see why we should be like that.
Puke green leather.
A leprechaun.
Not us.
Some of us shaved today. Didn't you notice?
Hey, I'm wearing clean clothes!
For entirely different reasons, most men object to Hello Kitty. That saccharine feline, with her cutesy-poo affectations, appearance, and accoutrements, does not dingle our bell in any way.
Not as an accessory, not as a decorative motif.
Eyes spaced precisely so. Bow perfectly canted to one side.
Blank emotionless expression.
No, doesn't work.
Perhaps if she were covered in puke green leather?
IRMA BUCKETGUT
One suggested FB friend can only be described as 'Irma Bucketgut'. Everything on her page indicated capacious junkfood appetite. Big, dripping, greasy fistfulls of meat shreds on a roll, tureens of cheese-flavoured mush nibbles, bacon on everything.
Pizza. Burgers. Fried chicken. Meatloaf.
The coveted 64 oz. big gulp mug.
A princess of pork chop.
Yes, she had a handbag.
As well as Hello Kitty panties.
No, she was not a Hong Kong girl.
I declined that Facebook suggestion, just like many others.
I cannot figure out what similarities Facebook assumed we had.
However, if Facebook decides that I need to be friends with a rabbi who collects handbags and Hello Kitty garbage, I may be powerless to resist.
After all, we have so much in common.
Like Chinese food.
And a kippah.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FUNNY AND JEWISH - CHOICE HUMOUR
New mention on the blogroll: Funny and Jewish.
Quote:
"In a decisive move intended to break deadlocked Israeli-Palestinian negotiations, Chief Palestinian mediator Saeb Erekat is prepared to recognize the United States as a Jewish State."
End quote.
Finally.
Source:
http://funnyandjewish.com/palestinians-recognize-u-s-as-jewish-state/.
In other news, Palestinian President Mahmoud Abbas has insisted that Dearborn should be recognized as Islamic waqf for all eternity and become the future capitol.
The U.N. is expected to approve this later in the month.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Quote:
"In a decisive move intended to break deadlocked Israeli-Palestinian negotiations, Chief Palestinian mediator Saeb Erekat is prepared to recognize the United States as a Jewish State."
End quote.
Finally.
Source:
http://funnyandjewish.com/palestinians-recognize-u-s-as-jewish-state/.
In other news, Palestinian President Mahmoud Abbas has insisted that Dearborn should be recognized as Islamic waqf for all eternity and become the future capitol.
The U.N. is expected to approve this later in the month.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, September 06, 2011
FIT PIPE TOBACCO FOR SEXUAL DEVIANTS AND BUNNY RABBIT MURDERERS
The other day I came waltzing in to the local tobacconist, who was almighty pleased to see me.
In fact, a more effusive and smiling welcome would be hard to imagine.
Turns out he had a "recommendation" he wished to make.
"Dude, I've got a pipe tobacco you've got to try!
He was extremely disappointed that I already knew about the product, and totally flabbergasted when I spoke well of it.
GROUSEMOOR
Manufactured by Samuel Gawith in Kendall, Cumbria.
Per our friends at Tobacco Reviews dot com: "This 200 year old blend is comprised of hand-stripped flue-cured Zimbabwe leaf, steamed to a Golden color then stoved into a unique mélange of flavors. The aroma is of "Lemon Grass".
Well, that doesn't quite say it all. There's also eau d'abricot in here.
It smells like a very moist Texas fruit cake.
Or a barber with doubtful predilections.
My tobacco merchant had opened up a tin with optimism, but was bowled over by the disconcerting fruit-soap reek of the contents.
Truly, the topping is one of the queerest perfumations in tobacco history.
Grousemoor is nevertheless a very fine tobacco. The beautiful flue-cured ribbons are of excellent quality, and the tobacco burns evenly all the way down.
I have successfully broken in some high-quality briers with this blend, and have finished several tins.
But I will not recommend it, because normal people smoke good flakes, vapers, or Oriental mixtures. Consequently only queer fish and misanthropes are likely to develop an affection for this excellent and altogether admirable product.
Oh, and Europeans - there's also a blend by Peterson that they like: Sherlock Holmes.
[SHERLOCK HOLMES, for Peterson by Kohlhase, Kopp & Co.: "An old 19th century blend of Orange and Red smoking leaf, Brazilian Burley and Virginia Mysore Indian tobacco."
Smells like a bowl of stone fruits, and smoked carelessly this degenerate "detective" will vivisect your mouth while trying to find out where the body is buried. Some people think there's an evil spirit in this mixture. They could be right. It's excellent tobacco.]
COMPLEX NEUROSES AND SADISM
The two most depraved tobaccos I have ever run across are DaVinci and Blue Note.
The first one smells like the backroom of a liquor store, the second is the aroma of a daemon farting out candy. The only people I can envision smoking either of those products habitually are uncaught pederasts, Saddam Hussein, Pakistanis, the Austrians who keep their daughters as sexual slaves in the basement for decades, that German chap who rigged up a second-hand telephone booth in his apartment as a torture and eventual burial device, and people who kill bunny rabbits.
I have the last tins of those mixtures that my tobacconist ever sold.
No, I have NOTHING good to say about DaVinci and Blue Note. They are truly base products, invented when that estimable company which for diplomacy's sake I shall not mention in this post was invaded by foaming weasels.
Perhaps someone in Germany had a bad batch of LSD.
There are no other possible explanations.
Or they did it on a drunken dare.
While killing rabbits too.
Wicked alchemists.
Fie! Fie! Fie!
And faugh!
I shall never open those two tins. They will be used to torment people.
But I'll probably smoke a few bowls of Grousemoor or Sherlock Holmes later this year, when I want to indulge my unspeakable side.
If I smell like Hello Kitty, you'll know why.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In fact, a more effusive and smiling welcome would be hard to imagine.
Turns out he had a "recommendation" he wished to make.
"Dude, I've got a pipe tobacco you've got to try!
He was extremely disappointed that I already knew about the product, and totally flabbergasted when I spoke well of it.
GROUSEMOOR
Manufactured by Samuel Gawith in Kendall, Cumbria.
Per our friends at Tobacco Reviews dot com: "This 200 year old blend is comprised of hand-stripped flue-cured Zimbabwe leaf, steamed to a Golden color then stoved into a unique mélange of flavors. The aroma is of "Lemon Grass".
Well, that doesn't quite say it all. There's also eau d'abricot in here.
It smells like a very moist Texas fruit cake.
Or a barber with doubtful predilections.
My tobacco merchant had opened up a tin with optimism, but was bowled over by the disconcerting fruit-soap reek of the contents.
Truly, the topping is one of the queerest perfumations in tobacco history.
Grousemoor is nevertheless a very fine tobacco. The beautiful flue-cured ribbons are of excellent quality, and the tobacco burns evenly all the way down.
I have successfully broken in some high-quality briers with this blend, and have finished several tins.
But I will not recommend it, because normal people smoke good flakes, vapers, or Oriental mixtures. Consequently only queer fish and misanthropes are likely to develop an affection for this excellent and altogether admirable product.
Oh, and Europeans - there's also a blend by Peterson that they like: Sherlock Holmes.
[SHERLOCK HOLMES, for Peterson by Kohlhase, Kopp & Co.: "An old 19th century blend of Orange and Red smoking leaf, Brazilian Burley and Virginia Mysore Indian tobacco."
Smells like a bowl of stone fruits, and smoked carelessly this degenerate "detective" will vivisect your mouth while trying to find out where the body is buried. Some people think there's an evil spirit in this mixture. They could be right. It's excellent tobacco.]
COMPLEX NEUROSES AND SADISM
The two most depraved tobaccos I have ever run across are DaVinci and Blue Note.
The first one smells like the backroom of a liquor store, the second is the aroma of a daemon farting out candy. The only people I can envision smoking either of those products habitually are uncaught pederasts, Saddam Hussein, Pakistanis, the Austrians who keep their daughters as sexual slaves in the basement for decades, that German chap who rigged up a second-hand telephone booth in his apartment as a torture and eventual burial device, and people who kill bunny rabbits.
I have the last tins of those mixtures that my tobacconist ever sold.
No, I have NOTHING good to say about DaVinci and Blue Note. They are truly base products, invented when that estimable company which for diplomacy's sake I shall not mention in this post was invaded by foaming weasels.
Perhaps someone in Germany had a bad batch of LSD.
There are no other possible explanations.
Or they did it on a drunken dare.
While killing rabbits too.
Wicked alchemists.
Fie! Fie! Fie!
And faugh!
I shall never open those two tins. They will be used to torment people.
But I'll probably smoke a few bowls of Grousemoor or Sherlock Holmes later this year, when I want to indulge my unspeakable side.
If I smell like Hello Kitty, you'll know why.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, September 05, 2011
EATING THE FOREST
We are surrounded by small loonies. There is no escape. These are the creatures that haunt our dreams, whispering evil things in our ears as we sleep.
Things like "give me quarters". Or "I want a potato!"
And naturally we wake up screaming. The horror, the horror.
There's a small sock sheep sitting on our pillow giggling and studiously looking innocent. Would he try to implant hypnotic suggestions in our minds by insistently speaking at our drowsing head? No, noooooo....!
Not him.
While wondering at his honesty, we fix a baked potato filled with quarters.
If our roomies were NORMAL, they'd just put things like "you're fat, you eat too much, and you dress funny" into our heads.
But sometimes they are realists. They understand that when you are trying on pants and you can slip the pair off without even unbuttoning it - because they don't make anything smaller than a size FOUR - the concept of 'fat' isn't operative.
Crap, why don't they make women's size two?
Not everyone in the United States is built like a Sherman Tank.
Why is that sock sheep trying to look so straightfaced? Why is he smiling into a hoof while staring fixedly at the middle distance?
I don't trust him.
When HE's asleep, I will whisper that the Gleaming Salamander God will come up through the cracks in the floor, and feast upon his potatoes.
AND STEAL HIS QUARTERS!
That'll teach him not to put abnormal thoughts into our heads.
Hmmmph!
Above all, we shall maintain a sane life style.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Things like "give me quarters". Or "I want a potato!"
And naturally we wake up screaming. The horror, the horror.
There's a small sock sheep sitting on our pillow giggling and studiously looking innocent. Would he try to implant hypnotic suggestions in our minds by insistently speaking at our drowsing head? No, noooooo....!
Not him.
While wondering at his honesty, we fix a baked potato filled with quarters.
If our roomies were NORMAL, they'd just put things like "you're fat, you eat too much, and you dress funny" into our heads.
But sometimes they are realists. They understand that when you are trying on pants and you can slip the pair off without even unbuttoning it - because they don't make anything smaller than a size FOUR - the concept of 'fat' isn't operative.
Crap, why don't they make women's size two?
Not everyone in the United States is built like a Sherman Tank.
Why is that sock sheep trying to look so straightfaced? Why is he smiling into a hoof while staring fixedly at the middle distance?
I don't trust him.
When HE's asleep, I will whisper that the Gleaming Salamander God will come up through the cracks in the floor, and feast upon his potatoes.
AND STEAL HIS QUARTERS!
That'll teach him not to put abnormal thoughts into our heads.
Hmmmph!
Above all, we shall maintain a sane life style.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, September 04, 2011
LUNCH IN CHINATOWN
One of the great ironies of San Francisco is that a major thoroughfare running through Chinatown looks like it's named for an Irish racist, trouble maker, and all-round thug with a huge hatred for Orientals.
Involved in violence and complicit in murder, Denis Kearney was the leader of the Working Man's Party, which was described as "naught more than ignorant Celtic poltroons, illiterate, unwashed, and savage".
As I said, looks like it was named after him.
In actual fact the street was named after Stephen Watts Kearny, an army officer who served in the Mexican-American War, and became military governor of California. A man of solid New York - New Jersey antecedents.
No relation whatsoever to the aforementioned ignorant Celtic poltroon.
Literate, clean, and quite civilized.
Kearny versus Kearney - Scottish English versus Hiberno-English.
Please note the distinction.
Orthographic, yes, but significant.
Not that it makes much difference to me, seeing as I'll gladly piss on all of them while drinking their very fine liquor.
I am, in fact, what you would call a bigot. Not fond of the Scots (manufacturers of excellent whisky, superlative woolens, smoked fish of some sort that is very highly rated, and partan bree), the Irish (also excellent whisky, Guiness, and several lovely pig products), the English (formerly known for great tobaccos, strong tea, and the noble language we speak), the Dutch (herring, smoked eel, dry cigars, best cheese in the world), the Germans (I'm sure they're known for something, but I can't think of it at the moment), Belgians (best cooking in Europe, superlative beers), the French (wines, cheeses, fatty goose liver, arrogance, and perfume), the Italians, Spanish, Swiss....
And by 'not fond', what I really mean is "sod off, you foreign muck".
A sentiment which thrives primarily at this time of year, when so many of them have come to visit San Francisco.
THE SEASONAL PLAGUE
Contrary to what our whore-like hotel industry will tell you, most San Francisco residents do not really want you to leave your heart here. We'd rather you obediently trotted from Union Square to Fisherman's wharf, and left the very next day.
Having over a dozen of you lot argue with the cablecar gripman about the price of a ticket, while clusterfudging in the doorways and not letting anyone else on or off, might be construed by some of us as a nuisance that requires an exterminator.
Get. Out. Of. The Door. Way. You. Moron.
Taking photos of something is nice. Kindly do not block traffic while you do so. This city was not invented for your pleasure, some of us are trying to get from point A to point B.
I know you come from a flat boggy part of the world where nobody knows how to drive, but there are cars and buses that use our steep streets.
Speaking louder does not make us understand you any better. Try speaking English instead of Yorkshirese and Brogue. Many people in this city speak English, we actually use it to transact business and communicate with each other.
If you cannot manage that, please feel free to point at what you want and grunt heartrendingly.
The merchant will understand you.
And lastly.....
If you are NOT going to buy any food in any of the bakeries and take-out dim sum places in Chinatown, get out.
Standing around in a jabbering mass while pointing and asking stupid questions, and then not spending a penny, will not endear you to anyone.
Does NOT buying anything really require a committee?
Can you not decide beforehand that everything frightens you, and stay the hell out?
Is your culinary curiosity really limited to trembling at new prospects and bovine quacking?
Half a dozen of my favourite haunts in C'town were infested with you lot.
No, the ladies behind the counter do NOT understand German or French (or Cockney and West-Midlands), why would you think they did?
I was finally enjoying some pastries in peace and quiet at a lovely bakery down on Jackson Street, when more of you people came in.
Between the twenty of you, you spent one dollar and fifty cents. You chased an old lady out. An elderly uncle tried wading through the herd and nearly gave up, but fortunately the woman behind the counter saw him and yelled out "ah Wong sook ah, ney oi mat-ye ah? Ney tzoh, ney tzoh, ngoh loh pei nei!".
Between the ONE of him he outspent the twenty of you.
One person at least had the decency to leave a tip after using the bathroom.
I find it significant that he was Hispanic. From Mexico.
He also said 'thank you'.
There's probably no equivalent of that word in your languages, is there?
AFTERWORD
Yes, I actually enjoyed my lunch. And the coffee was excellent too. After the European Tourist Season is over, in another month, Chinatown will return to normal.
Meantime I need to purchase a few boxes of mooncakes, seeing as it's also that time of year.
I would've done that at the same time as I had lunch, but for some reason I forgot all about it.
Probably distracted.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Involved in violence and complicit in murder, Denis Kearney was the leader of the Working Man's Party, which was described as "naught more than ignorant Celtic poltroons, illiterate, unwashed, and savage".
As I said, looks like it was named after him.
In actual fact the street was named after Stephen Watts Kearny, an army officer who served in the Mexican-American War, and became military governor of California. A man of solid New York - New Jersey antecedents.
No relation whatsoever to the aforementioned ignorant Celtic poltroon.
Literate, clean, and quite civilized.
Kearny versus Kearney - Scottish English versus Hiberno-English.
Please note the distinction.
Orthographic, yes, but significant.
Not that it makes much difference to me, seeing as I'll gladly piss on all of them while drinking their very fine liquor.
I am, in fact, what you would call a bigot. Not fond of the Scots (manufacturers of excellent whisky, superlative woolens, smoked fish of some sort that is very highly rated, and partan bree), the Irish (also excellent whisky, Guiness, and several lovely pig products), the English (formerly known for great tobaccos, strong tea, and the noble language we speak), the Dutch (herring, smoked eel, dry cigars, best cheese in the world), the Germans (I'm sure they're known for something, but I can't think of it at the moment), Belgians (best cooking in Europe, superlative beers), the French (wines, cheeses, fatty goose liver, arrogance, and perfume), the Italians, Spanish, Swiss....
And by 'not fond', what I really mean is "sod off, you foreign muck".
A sentiment which thrives primarily at this time of year, when so many of them have come to visit San Francisco.
THE SEASONAL PLAGUE
Contrary to what our whore-like hotel industry will tell you, most San Francisco residents do not really want you to leave your heart here. We'd rather you obediently trotted from Union Square to Fisherman's wharf, and left the very next day.
Having over a dozen of you lot argue with the cablecar gripman about the price of a ticket, while clusterfudging in the doorways and not letting anyone else on or off, might be construed by some of us as a nuisance that requires an exterminator.
Get. Out. Of. The Door. Way. You. Moron.
Taking photos of something is nice. Kindly do not block traffic while you do so. This city was not invented for your pleasure, some of us are trying to get from point A to point B.
I know you come from a flat boggy part of the world where nobody knows how to drive, but there are cars and buses that use our steep streets.
Speaking louder does not make us understand you any better. Try speaking English instead of Yorkshirese and Brogue. Many people in this city speak English, we actually use it to transact business and communicate with each other.
If you cannot manage that, please feel free to point at what you want and grunt heartrendingly.
The merchant will understand you.
And lastly.....
If you are NOT going to buy any food in any of the bakeries and take-out dim sum places in Chinatown, get out.
Standing around in a jabbering mass while pointing and asking stupid questions, and then not spending a penny, will not endear you to anyone.
Does NOT buying anything really require a committee?
Can you not decide beforehand that everything frightens you, and stay the hell out?
Is your culinary curiosity really limited to trembling at new prospects and bovine quacking?
Half a dozen of my favourite haunts in C'town were infested with you lot.
No, the ladies behind the counter do NOT understand German or French (or Cockney and West-Midlands), why would you think they did?
I was finally enjoying some pastries in peace and quiet at a lovely bakery down on Jackson Street, when more of you people came in.
Between the twenty of you, you spent one dollar and fifty cents. You chased an old lady out. An elderly uncle tried wading through the herd and nearly gave up, but fortunately the woman behind the counter saw him and yelled out "ah Wong sook ah, ney oi mat-ye ah? Ney tzoh, ney tzoh, ngoh loh pei nei!".
Between the ONE of him he outspent the twenty of you.
One person at least had the decency to leave a tip after using the bathroom.
I find it significant that he was Hispanic. From Mexico.
He also said 'thank you'.
There's probably no equivalent of that word in your languages, is there?
AFTERWORD
Yes, I actually enjoyed my lunch. And the coffee was excellent too. After the European Tourist Season is over, in another month, Chinatown will return to normal.
Meantime I need to purchase a few boxes of mooncakes, seeing as it's also that time of year.
I would've done that at the same time as I had lunch, but for some reason I forgot all about it.
Probably distracted.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, September 03, 2011
WHAT DOES VICTORY SMELL LIKE?
One of the smokers at the wall mentioned that many movies nowadays are in 3D.
Which, naturally, brought up the subject of 'smell-o-vision'. Which is a technology that may be available soon.
I can think of any number of movies and television programmes that would be completely unwatchable when that happens.
Not only the obvious candidates - romances, nature documentaries, and the housewives of wherever - but also every single cooking show on the idiot box. Do you really want that much sensory stimulation when you're just looking for entertainment?
Especially if they don't get it right?
Cheeses, from Limburg.
Of course not!
Shan't even mention pornography. You'll never be able to watch technicolor nasty again.
And the less said about educational films in smell-o-vision the better.
Duck, and cover your nose.
There are, in fact, only TWO categories of entertainment in which smell-o-vision has any use whatsoever.
Sports.
And the shopping channels.
The advantage for the latter category is obvious. Why, it smells like a lovely BRAND NEW purse in here! And those BEAUTIFUL shoes smell like high quality leather......... with a background whiff of expensive boutique.
Mmm, LaCroix!
What a marvelous way to maximize sales, without the shopper ever having to get up off the couch.
It wouldn't benefit the jewelry channel much, but I'm assuming everyone switching on the smell-o-view when watching bling-shopping would be doing so ironically anyhow.
Have you SEEN the tacky crap they're selling?
Housewives in Iowa, sweetie.
Iowa.
Ick.
Sports might be a far less obvious beneficiary of smell-o-vision. But think about it for a second. What does a living room full of men watching the game on Sunday normally smell like?
Pizza. Beer. Sweat. Slim Jim breath. Testosterone. Intestinal gasses.
Plus unwashed bachelor friends and psychopaths.
Go to a sports bar, and you get all of that squared, without there even being an interval of a week to let the place clear out.
Compared with that, the reek of football players rolling in the mud may actually be a good thing.
Bring on the smell-o-vision!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which, naturally, brought up the subject of 'smell-o-vision'. Which is a technology that may be available soon.
I can think of any number of movies and television programmes that would be completely unwatchable when that happens.
Not only the obvious candidates - romances, nature documentaries, and the housewives of wherever - but also every single cooking show on the idiot box. Do you really want that much sensory stimulation when you're just looking for entertainment?
Especially if they don't get it right?
Cheeses, from Limburg.
Of course not!
Shan't even mention pornography. You'll never be able to watch technicolor nasty again.
And the less said about educational films in smell-o-vision the better.
Duck, and cover your nose.
There are, in fact, only TWO categories of entertainment in which smell-o-vision has any use whatsoever.
Sports.
And the shopping channels.
The advantage for the latter category is obvious. Why, it smells like a lovely BRAND NEW purse in here! And those BEAUTIFUL shoes smell like high quality leather......... with a background whiff of expensive boutique.
Mmm, LaCroix!
What a marvelous way to maximize sales, without the shopper ever having to get up off the couch.
It wouldn't benefit the jewelry channel much, but I'm assuming everyone switching on the smell-o-view when watching bling-shopping would be doing so ironically anyhow.
Have you SEEN the tacky crap they're selling?
Housewives in Iowa, sweetie.
Iowa.
Ick.
Sports might be a far less obvious beneficiary of smell-o-vision. But think about it for a second. What does a living room full of men watching the game on Sunday normally smell like?
Pizza. Beer. Sweat. Slim Jim breath. Testosterone. Intestinal gasses.
Plus unwashed bachelor friends and psychopaths.
Go to a sports bar, and you get all of that squared, without there even being an interval of a week to let the place clear out.
Compared with that, the reek of football players rolling in the mud may actually be a good thing.
Bring on the smell-o-vision!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, September 02, 2011
GOT SOUP?
The Van Dyk's had a lovely grove of trees on their property, and as the pater familias was a good friend I spent quite some time there during summer.
There was a log underneath the largest tree which had the perfect bend for sitting, and you could read there for hours, with just the occasional buzzing insect, or a cheeky bird in the tall grass, as company.
Or the two squirrels who lived in the tree.
And indignant little Lucinda.
Mr. Van Dyk's daughter.
Who was angry at me.
It turns out that the bend in the log was where her Teddy Bear was supposed to sit. Her seat! Not mine!
And what, she demanded to know the first time she found me there, did I think I was doing?
Had I absolutely no respect for the proprieties? Was I an oaf?
I averred that I was indeed an oaf, and there was no law that said I could not sit there.
If that was the bear's favourite spot, she should have put her name on it.
And in any case, the bear was NOT reposing there when I came.
So, logically, it's now my seat. I'm sitting on it.
I'll share it with the bear, though. Provided she doesn't bite. Can't stand biting.
Grumblingly, the bear acceded to this quite reasonable suggestion.
I could tell that she really wanted to bite me, but she controlled herself.
Over the next few visits, I found out that the bear liked parties, and gay events.
Not because of the inevitable cake, which was of course excellent too, but because of the soup. A proper soirée has soup. Different kinds of soup, in nice porcelain tureens, with small elegant bowls. It was very festive.
Both the bear and Lucinda were surprised that I did not know this.
Obviously there was something wrong with my education.
In mid-August we celebrated mrs. Van Dyk's birthday. Like every year she was turning 34.
As befitted a festive occasion, there was cake, and also soup.
I helped out in the salon, placing the tureen on the table, then carrying in the cake, and Lucinda happily gloated that the bear had grabbed the seat out under the tree. Hah!
She would bring the bear some soup, so that I wouldn't have a chance to sit there while the bear enjoyed the party.
The bear was perfectly fine listening to the jollification from a distance, perhaps sharing her soup with the two squirrels. Humans were so clumsy - that's why the squirrels never attended parties, they were afraid that someone would step on them.
Or sit where they weren't supposed to!
That last, I feel, was probably directed at me.
When it started to rain, later that afternoon, Lucinda didn't remember the bear until a good ten or fifteen minutes into the thunderstorm.
It was my fault, you must understand.
As I was rubbing a towel over my sopping head after coming back in, I innocently asked about the ursine.
Lucinda was very distraught, the bear shouldn't catch a cold! Or pneumonia! Quick, we must go save the bear!
Unfortunately the big umbrella was nowhere to be found, and it was raining so hard that mrs. Van Dyk refused to allow Lucinda to go out.
Her father comforted her by explaining that bears could look after themselves, and in any case hardly any rain would penetrate the leaves of the tree. Why, the area underneath the tree was probably the driest spot of all.
As soon as the downpour lessens, we'll all go out to get the bear, okay?
The squirrels have probably offered her shelter, so please don't worry!
It didn't help much, but she was no longer panicking so. The moment the downpour became a mere summer rain, the little girl dashed out, followed by her father.
They came back in a few minutes.
It was the strangest thing. They had found the bear sitting quite at her ease on the log, completely dry. The reason why they hadn't been able to find the big umbrella earlier was because the bear had it. The bear also had a partially eaten piece of cake in front of her, with three forks. Apparently the cake was tasty, but she and the squirrels really preferred the soup. This was obvious because there were three empty bowls under the tree!
Lucinda was a bit confused, as she had only brought the bear one bowl.
I remarked that clearly the bear had come in at some point to get more soup. Squirrels also liked soup.
They followed the excellent example of the bear.
Without a doubt she didn't understand the complex world of bears and squirrels, she should pay more attention.
For the rest of the day, Lucinda regarded me with the utmost suspicion.
Probably envious at my profound understanding of bears and squirrels.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There was a log underneath the largest tree which had the perfect bend for sitting, and you could read there for hours, with just the occasional buzzing insect, or a cheeky bird in the tall grass, as company.
Or the two squirrels who lived in the tree.
And indignant little Lucinda.
Mr. Van Dyk's daughter.
Who was angry at me.
It turns out that the bend in the log was where her Teddy Bear was supposed to sit. Her seat! Not mine!
And what, she demanded to know the first time she found me there, did I think I was doing?
Had I absolutely no respect for the proprieties? Was I an oaf?
I averred that I was indeed an oaf, and there was no law that said I could not sit there.
If that was the bear's favourite spot, she should have put her name on it.
And in any case, the bear was NOT reposing there when I came.
So, logically, it's now my seat. I'm sitting on it.
I'll share it with the bear, though. Provided she doesn't bite. Can't stand biting.
Grumblingly, the bear acceded to this quite reasonable suggestion.
I could tell that she really wanted to bite me, but she controlled herself.
Over the next few visits, I found out that the bear liked parties, and gay events.
Not because of the inevitable cake, which was of course excellent too, but because of the soup. A proper soirée has soup. Different kinds of soup, in nice porcelain tureens, with small elegant bowls. It was very festive.
Both the bear and Lucinda were surprised that I did not know this.
Obviously there was something wrong with my education.
In mid-August we celebrated mrs. Van Dyk's birthday. Like every year she was turning 34.
As befitted a festive occasion, there was cake, and also soup.
I helped out in the salon, placing the tureen on the table, then carrying in the cake, and Lucinda happily gloated that the bear had grabbed the seat out under the tree. Hah!
She would bring the bear some soup, so that I wouldn't have a chance to sit there while the bear enjoyed the party.
The bear was perfectly fine listening to the jollification from a distance, perhaps sharing her soup with the two squirrels. Humans were so clumsy - that's why the squirrels never attended parties, they were afraid that someone would step on them.
Or sit where they weren't supposed to!
That last, I feel, was probably directed at me.
When it started to rain, later that afternoon, Lucinda didn't remember the bear until a good ten or fifteen minutes into the thunderstorm.
It was my fault, you must understand.
As I was rubbing a towel over my sopping head after coming back in, I innocently asked about the ursine.
Lucinda was very distraught, the bear shouldn't catch a cold! Or pneumonia! Quick, we must go save the bear!
Unfortunately the big umbrella was nowhere to be found, and it was raining so hard that mrs. Van Dyk refused to allow Lucinda to go out.
Her father comforted her by explaining that bears could look after themselves, and in any case hardly any rain would penetrate the leaves of the tree. Why, the area underneath the tree was probably the driest spot of all.
As soon as the downpour lessens, we'll all go out to get the bear, okay?
The squirrels have probably offered her shelter, so please don't worry!
It didn't help much, but she was no longer panicking so. The moment the downpour became a mere summer rain, the little girl dashed out, followed by her father.
They came back in a few minutes.
It was the strangest thing. They had found the bear sitting quite at her ease on the log, completely dry. The reason why they hadn't been able to find the big umbrella earlier was because the bear had it. The bear also had a partially eaten piece of cake in front of her, with three forks. Apparently the cake was tasty, but she and the squirrels really preferred the soup. This was obvious because there were three empty bowls under the tree!
Lucinda was a bit confused, as she had only brought the bear one bowl.
I remarked that clearly the bear had come in at some point to get more soup. Squirrels also liked soup.
They followed the excellent example of the bear.
Without a doubt she didn't understand the complex world of bears and squirrels, she should pay more attention.
For the rest of the day, Lucinda regarded me with the utmost suspicion.
Probably envious at my profound understanding of bears and squirrels.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BEST DIM SUM IN SAN FRANCISCO
What I'm looking for is a dim sum restaurant or Chinese snack place that is NOT wheel chair accesible. Some place on a slope, or in a crowded narrow alley, with upstairs seating and an uneven floor. Any place, really, that has good food and isn't "mobility impaired friendly".
A new breakfast place opened up around the corner several months ago.
I really hope they prosper, but they'll never get my business. Savage Kitten and her boyfriend like it. So it's off-limits.
Same goes for the Thai place nearby, the creperie, the French restaurant, and the Mexican joint.
As well as the eatery where they make, in her estimation, the best roast pork and duck in Chinatown. He likes it.
I refuse to eat at any restaurant that she and he frequent.
So, inaccessible and hard to get into are on the agenda.
No, I will not tell her about places I like.
Apparently she, that fellow, and her brothers are going to have lunch together soon.
Again.
Her brothers never knew about me.
For over twenty years we were together. She did not introduce me to them.
We lived together since 1993/4.
They didn't know.
Savage Kitten and Wheelie Boy have not even been together for a year. But her brothers have met him. And they're eating together.
You will understand, I hope, that even though I have come to terms with the fact that my love life has entirely evaporated, and I have accepted that the relationship is over, I am not happy with this particular development.
I was the chevalier in her life for over two decades.
But her brothers, her sisters in law, and her nephews, are entirely unaware that I even existed.
That damned Russian Jew, who doesn't even speak a word of Cantonese, and hasn't even half the history of comforting her and being strong for her, is now becoming 'family'.
He is "the boyfriend".
Yes, I know our relationship is over.
I do not regret our shared past at all.
Nor do I even fantasize about restoring it in any way.
What's gone is gone.
I do not begrudge her happiness, and I applaud her courage.
It took guts.
Better late than never.
It would have been nice if I was actually part of it.
But I was never 'family'.
If I ever have another relationship with a woman, it will be with someone who, while she may think me not entirely perfect, will nevertheless have the balls and honesty to introduce me to her relatives at some point.
If I was worth loving for 20 years, I must have some virtues.
Heck, if I was worth having a secret affair with for two decades, surely that proves that there are qualities that glow.
Her brothers. Her sisters in law. Her nephews. Dim sum.
She's trying to find a dim sum place that is on level ground, with wheelchair access, clean and non-offensive to white people.
Perforce then, I must find a dim sum place on a slope, with absolutely NO access for wheel chairs, narrow, crowded, and slightly grotty and grimy.
A restaurant that white people look at and run away screaming.
Some place where she and he can never eat.
A place where I, and an intelligent young lady who accepts me, can eat together.
Narrow, crowded, screamingly loud, with not a word of English on the walls, on the menu, or on the bill.
The type of restaurant where I will feel comfortable, and she won't fear to introduce me to family members eventually.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A new breakfast place opened up around the corner several months ago.
I really hope they prosper, but they'll never get my business. Savage Kitten and her boyfriend like it. So it's off-limits.
Same goes for the Thai place nearby, the creperie, the French restaurant, and the Mexican joint.
As well as the eatery where they make, in her estimation, the best roast pork and duck in Chinatown. He likes it.
I refuse to eat at any restaurant that she and he frequent.
So, inaccessible and hard to get into are on the agenda.
No, I will not tell her about places I like.
Apparently she, that fellow, and her brothers are going to have lunch together soon.
Again.
Her brothers never knew about me.
For over twenty years we were together. She did not introduce me to them.
We lived together since 1993/4.
They didn't know.
Savage Kitten and Wheelie Boy have not even been together for a year. But her brothers have met him. And they're eating together.
You will understand, I hope, that even though I have come to terms with the fact that my love life has entirely evaporated, and I have accepted that the relationship is over, I am not happy with this particular development.
I was the chevalier in her life for over two decades.
But her brothers, her sisters in law, and her nephews, are entirely unaware that I even existed.
That damned Russian Jew, who doesn't even speak a word of Cantonese, and hasn't even half the history of comforting her and being strong for her, is now becoming 'family'.
He is "the boyfriend".
Yes, I know our relationship is over.
I do not regret our shared past at all.
Nor do I even fantasize about restoring it in any way.
What's gone is gone.
I do not begrudge her happiness, and I applaud her courage.
It took guts.
Better late than never.
It would have been nice if I was actually part of it.
But I was never 'family'.
If I ever have another relationship with a woman, it will be with someone who, while she may think me not entirely perfect, will nevertheless have the balls and honesty to introduce me to her relatives at some point.
If I was worth loving for 20 years, I must have some virtues.
Heck, if I was worth having a secret affair with for two decades, surely that proves that there are qualities that glow.
Her brothers. Her sisters in law. Her nephews. Dim sum.
She's trying to find a dim sum place that is on level ground, with wheelchair access, clean and non-offensive to white people.
Perforce then, I must find a dim sum place on a slope, with absolutely NO access for wheel chairs, narrow, crowded, and slightly grotty and grimy.
A restaurant that white people look at and run away screaming.
Some place where she and he can never eat.
A place where I, and an intelligent young lady who accepts me, can eat together.
Narrow, crowded, screamingly loud, with not a word of English on the walls, on the menu, or on the bill.
The type of restaurant where I will feel comfortable, and she won't fear to introduce me to family members eventually.
==========================================================================
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,...
