Today's top posts surprise me. Normally that is impossible. Web searchers find my blog by looking for the most unusual things, and predictably a large number of them are somewhat perverted. A lot perverted. The internet exists for THREE things: food, kitten pictures, and smut.
And conspiracy theories. Four things.
Plus delivery pizza. Five.
Five things.
FOOD, KITTEN PICTURES, AND SMUT.
I am interested in food. I cannot stand kitten pictures.
And I refuse to answer questions about smut.
This blog has featured food a number of times. As well as many sneering comments about felines, most specifically Hello Kitty.
And, being a religious man with severe Calvinist tendencies, all puritanical and shit, I keep all smut secret, along with other depraved affections that I will deny having.
I am utterly clean. A veritable danged saint.
If your mom asks, I sure love Jesus.
In a non-sexual kind of way.
Oh holy crap yes.
Sorry, I was repressing something there.
Anyway, today's top blog posts are two.
Piscine:
MACKEREL IS NOT HERRING
[http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2010/08/mackerel-is-not-herring.html]
In which I mention one of the last times my ex and I had dinner together as a couple, over three years ago. The relationship was already on the skids then, and though we've remained friends, fresh fish did not repair it.
The people who find this article are all from England, and unfamiliar with the differences between two delicious creatures. Which is odd, considering that they are entirely surrounded by water.
Perhaps it's the brief mention of excel spreadsheets that they find fascinating. It probably isn't anything culinary.
And:
MANIFESTING FEMININE INDIVIDUALITY
[http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2013/12/manifesting-feminine-individuality.html]
This is actually one of my own favourite recent posts. It's more or less about how smoking a pipe is utterly ladylike and proper, despite what disapproving relatives and anti-smoking health-nazis in Berkeley might think. Something that I've always found appealing is the intelligent and strongminded woman who decides that yes she will smoke a pipe. Dammit.
I also mention some favourite women authors.
I am incredibly relieved that today's readers are not perverts. Nor are they paranoid conspiracy theorists with a thing for Hello Kitty. Hello Kitty, as all fish-eating women who smoke pipes undoubtedly realize, is the primrose path to ruin, the beginning of the mental end, and a symptom of sickness and spiritual rot. Unutterably nasty, saccharine, smarmy, and immature.
If she smoked a pipe, Hello Kitty's favourite tobacco would be fish-flavoured, with an undertone of strawberries.
Rancid rotten strawberries.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
YOU NEED A JAR OF MAYONNAISE!
It's all the fault of a pretty Asian woman. The odd things in my fridge. Her fault. The extraordinary cuteness -- or maybe some mysterioso Chinese American voodoo -- affected my judgment. We white men are strangely vulnerable to such things. What with being weak and all.
Fu Manchu works a dangerous spell upon us.
Or at least, his wicked little sister does.
White men are helpless around her.
It's evil, I tell you.
Evil.
I'm blaming my apartment mate for the things I bought at the food store late the other day. Because, like all white men, I am denying any personal responsibility, and leaping on the nearest convenient explanation that involves labeling another ethnic group.
I had returned from Marin, where I spent two days with fine briar pipes, removing crud from the inside and oxidation from the stems, then picking the built-up tar out of the rims of sandblasted items, and buffing. Several Italian briars now look positively virginal, and show fine grain definition in directional light. They'll probably go for a pretty penny, but whoever finally acquires them will be a happy camper with exceptional taste.
I was kind of tired.
Also, due to too much fun with other consumers of fine tobacco products the previous night, I had not had nearly enough sleep.
My apartment mate was sitting in front of the teevee watching real housewives from Atlanta fighting and talking about mortuary science, while doing a project on the computer. She was concentrating, busy typing intelligently, they were just background examples of how real American women behave.
Women with lots of make-up, overweight cleavage, and hair jobs that cost more than a downpayment on a house.
Real American women are NOT normal Cantonese females wearing pajamas. With functioning brains. Fox News, William James "Bill" O'Reilly, and Ms. Megyn Marie Kelly would have screaming fits if that were ever even suggested. Like Santa, real American women are black or white and vulgar as Croesus.
Real American women do NOT wear jammies with a penguin pattern.
As well as a plain unfemmy normal bathrobe.
Because it's winter.
After unspinning my tense nerves and upper-limb muscles with a nice hot cup of coffee, I decided that I needed to eat. Now, seeing as my apartment mate and I are NOT an item or a couple, just friends who happen to share an apartment in downtown San Francisco (where real American women would NEVER live), there was nothing in the refrigerator that I could lay claim to other than condiments.
And white bread. Which is real American.
So I went to the store.
One pumpkin pie (on sale). A tube of anchovy paste. A bâtard. A jar of chiles en escabeche. Hot sauce. A frozen microwave biryani. Hunk of blue cheese. Greek yoghurt. Shrimp flavour egg-noodles. Seaweed. They were out of peanut butter, so I bought three jars of mayonnaise instead.
If I had been living with a real American woman, I probably would've bought steak, potatoes, feta, tofu, and a yoga class.
And paid for that with a platinum card.
Then spun out of the parking lot.
In a brand-new sports car.
I'm rich, bitches!
Instead, I'm living with an evil Asian American woman, whose Teddy Bear growls fiercely at me, as well as penguin pattern pajamas. Even though she never touches mayonnaise, it was some kind of Oriental mind-control that made me buy three jars of that stuff.
On the plus side of this daemonic Chinese plot I find myself involved in, there are hardly any facial creams and no stockpiles of eye-shadow in the bathroom, no screaming cat fights with Kardasians, Atlantean bitches, or Hollywood harridans, no tofu wheatgrass cleansing shakes or facial scrub, and no drug habits, bloated egos, or nasty relatives, to complicate matters.
Just a smallish female person in front of the teeveee.
Who speaks proper English, in calm tones.
In happy penguin pajamas.
I now have three jars of mayonnaise.
And a discounted pumpkin pie.
What was I thinking?
Suggestions from black and white vulgarians are welcome.
Help me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Fu Manchu works a dangerous spell upon us.
Or at least, his wicked little sister does.
White men are helpless around her.
It's evil, I tell you.
Evil.
I'm blaming my apartment mate for the things I bought at the food store late the other day. Because, like all white men, I am denying any personal responsibility, and leaping on the nearest convenient explanation that involves labeling another ethnic group.
I had returned from Marin, where I spent two days with fine briar pipes, removing crud from the inside and oxidation from the stems, then picking the built-up tar out of the rims of sandblasted items, and buffing. Several Italian briars now look positively virginal, and show fine grain definition in directional light. They'll probably go for a pretty penny, but whoever finally acquires them will be a happy camper with exceptional taste.
I was kind of tired.
Also, due to too much fun with other consumers of fine tobacco products the previous night, I had not had nearly enough sleep.
My apartment mate was sitting in front of the teevee watching real housewives from Atlanta fighting and talking about mortuary science, while doing a project on the computer. She was concentrating, busy typing intelligently, they were just background examples of how real American women behave.
Women with lots of make-up, overweight cleavage, and hair jobs that cost more than a downpayment on a house.
Real American women are NOT normal Cantonese females wearing pajamas. With functioning brains. Fox News, William James "Bill" O'Reilly, and Ms. Megyn Marie Kelly would have screaming fits if that were ever even suggested. Like Santa, real American women are black or white and vulgar as Croesus.
Real American women do NOT wear jammies with a penguin pattern.
As well as a plain unfemmy normal bathrobe.
Because it's winter.
After unspinning my tense nerves and upper-limb muscles with a nice hot cup of coffee, I decided that I needed to eat. Now, seeing as my apartment mate and I are NOT an item or a couple, just friends who happen to share an apartment in downtown San Francisco (where real American women would NEVER live), there was nothing in the refrigerator that I could lay claim to other than condiments.
And white bread. Which is real American.
So I went to the store.
One pumpkin pie (on sale). A tube of anchovy paste. A bâtard. A jar of chiles en escabeche. Hot sauce. A frozen microwave biryani. Hunk of blue cheese. Greek yoghurt. Shrimp flavour egg-noodles. Seaweed. They were out of peanut butter, so I bought three jars of mayonnaise instead.
If I had been living with a real American woman, I probably would've bought steak, potatoes, feta, tofu, and a yoga class.
And paid for that with a platinum card.
Then spun out of the parking lot.
In a brand-new sports car.
I'm rich, bitches!
Instead, I'm living with an evil Asian American woman, whose Teddy Bear growls fiercely at me, as well as penguin pattern pajamas. Even though she never touches mayonnaise, it was some kind of Oriental mind-control that made me buy three jars of that stuff.
On the plus side of this daemonic Chinese plot I find myself involved in, there are hardly any facial creams and no stockpiles of eye-shadow in the bathroom, no screaming cat fights with Kardasians, Atlantean bitches, or Hollywood harridans, no tofu wheatgrass cleansing shakes or facial scrub, and no drug habits, bloated egos, or nasty relatives, to complicate matters.
Just a smallish female person in front of the teeveee.
Who speaks proper English, in calm tones.
In happy penguin pajamas.
I now have three jars of mayonnaise.
And a discounted pumpkin pie.
What was I thinking?
Suggestions from black and white vulgarians are welcome.
Help me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, December 16, 2013
BAGNOLET - A DESPICABLE COMMUNE OF SWINE
The city council of Bagnolet -- a small municipality on the outskirts of Paris in the arrondisement of Bobogny, population thirty four thousand people -- granted honourary citizenship to convicted murderer Georges Ibrahim Abdallah, and called for his immediate (!) release from prison.
Mr. Abdallah is currently sitting pretty for killing two diplomats and planning to whack a third.
I'll leave you to guess what political party the loathsome cretins of Bagnolet voted for in their last election.
Quote:
"Nous sommes fiers d'annoncer que notre frère Georges Ibrahim Abdallah est désormais citoyen d'honneur de la ville de Bagnolet, à l'issue d'un Conseil municipal où il a fallu batailler !!!
Nos années de militantisme pour la Palestine payent, nous récoltons les fruits d'un rapport de force politique durement construit sur le terrain depuis des années.
Le GAB salue le courage du maire, Marc Everbecq, qui a tenu parole après avoir signé la pétition, et ce malgré les pressions énormes de celles et ceux, nombreux ce soir au Conseil municipal, qui ont qualifié Georges Ibrahim Abdallah de "terroriste"."
[Source: http://liberonsgeorges.over-blog.com/article-georges-ibrahim-abdallah-citoyen-d-honneur-de-la-ville-de-bagnolet-93-121561735.html.]
Le Groupe des associations de Bagnolet et des camarades du soutien à la libération de Georges Abdallah ont activement travaillé sur cette initiative depuis plusieurs mois. Une pétition pour qu'une motion appelant à nommer Georges Abdallah citoyen d'honneur de la ville soit présentée au conseil municipal avait été lancée dernièrement.
End quote.
In a truly just world, the following medical treatments would no longer be provided to the people of Bagnolet: intramuscular penicillin G or oral azithromycin. Doxycycline. Tetracycline. Ceftriaxone.
Guaiacum gum.
Let them rot.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Mr. Abdallah is currently sitting pretty for killing two diplomats and planning to whack a third.
I'll leave you to guess what political party the loathsome cretins of Bagnolet voted for in their last election.
Quote:
"Nous sommes fiers d'annoncer que notre frère Georges Ibrahim Abdallah est désormais citoyen d'honneur de la ville de Bagnolet, à l'issue d'un Conseil municipal où il a fallu batailler !!!
Nos années de militantisme pour la Palestine payent, nous récoltons les fruits d'un rapport de force politique durement construit sur le terrain depuis des années.
Le GAB salue le courage du maire, Marc Everbecq, qui a tenu parole après avoir signé la pétition, et ce malgré les pressions énormes de celles et ceux, nombreux ce soir au Conseil municipal, qui ont qualifié Georges Ibrahim Abdallah de "terroriste"."
[Source: http://liberonsgeorges.over-blog.com/article-georges-ibrahim-abdallah-citoyen-d-honneur-de-la-ville-de-bagnolet-93-121561735.html.]
Le Groupe des associations de Bagnolet et des camarades du soutien à la libération de Georges Abdallah ont activement travaillé sur cette initiative depuis plusieurs mois. Une pétition pour qu'une motion appelant à nommer Georges Abdallah citoyen d'honneur de la ville soit présentée au conseil municipal avait été lancée dernièrement.
End quote.
In a truly just world, the following medical treatments would no longer be provided to the people of Bagnolet: intramuscular penicillin G or oral azithromycin. Doxycycline. Tetracycline. Ceftriaxone.
Guaiacum gum.
Let them rot.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FESTIVE SEASONAL THOUGHTS
Much as I try, it proves hard to convince others that this blogger is actually a sweet sensitive guy that you can trust around your rowdy brats or senescent old-folks. Not, please understand, that I really want to spend much time around rugrats or mentally spent fossils, but that seems to be the gold-standard of sweet sensitive guy.
And, of course, the reason for being accepted as a sweet sensitive guy is that it might get one a date sometime. On a slow evening. When the dance clubs are closed due to police raids. Or pest-control issues.
Apparently, dating is a good thing.
I've been told so.
The last time (several years ago) one of my friends bludgeoned me into baby-sitting, I apparently made quite an impression.
I told his little tyke the story about the three billy goats gruff.
Except that I couldn't remember what happened to the first two billy goats, so I shortened the tale considerably.
"This big bold shaggy billy goat was heading home. When he got to the bridge, a gruff and fearsome voice roared out from underneath. " I am the TROLL that owns this bridge! You must either pay me a toll or do as I say!" To which the big billy goat responded "I don't think so, screw you, dickwad!". Whereupon the troll rushed up to grab him, and the goat lowered his head and charged the troll, knocking him over and killing him. Then the billy goat ate the corpse. The end."
As it turns out, in that household goats are vegetarian souls, and trolls are lovable nature beings with fur. Gentle, but sometimes misguided.
Problems are not solved by violence.
My friend's wife has kept me away from little Johnny ever since.
I am, she avers, a horrendously bad influence.
Possibly insane or dangerous.
Stupid softie.
This blogger, you should know, is all about goat-empowerment, and resolutely opposed to the fascism of trolls. Their sense of entitlement has lasted too long, the time has come to reject the hegemony of supernatural Scandinavians in whatever field.
Down with all shaggy Nordic myths, the caprine classes have risen!
Besides, that bridge was supposed to have been paid off years ago.
Last I heard, she was telling the brat that Santa's elves lovingly craft gifts in a well-ventilated factory for a living wage under excellent working conditions, with full benefits, and that the best toys are sustainably green and socially responsible.
Which is just plain wrong.
The reason Santa operates a brutal sweat-shop with no heating and dangerous equipment so far away at the North Pole is that if he tried exploiting elves in the continental United States like that, we'd string his fat red hiney up and torch the warehouse.
Capitalism at its cruelest, several elves crippled each year.
The unions should be righteously outraged.
She's ruining Christmas!
If I were a Christian, I'd get back into her good graces, so that I could tell little Johnny the truth, and try to heal some of the damage her cotton-wool ideas are doing.
But I am not, and I don't really care if little Johnny doesn't 'get it'.
I'm not that fond of children anyway. Not hers.
Christmas shouldn't be about gifts.
Perhaps about goats.
Red goats
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And, of course, the reason for being accepted as a sweet sensitive guy is that it might get one a date sometime. On a slow evening. When the dance clubs are closed due to police raids. Or pest-control issues.
Apparently, dating is a good thing.
I've been told so.
The last time (several years ago) one of my friends bludgeoned me into baby-sitting, I apparently made quite an impression.
I told his little tyke the story about the three billy goats gruff.
Except that I couldn't remember what happened to the first two billy goats, so I shortened the tale considerably.
"This big bold shaggy billy goat was heading home. When he got to the bridge, a gruff and fearsome voice roared out from underneath. " I am the TROLL that owns this bridge! You must either pay me a toll or do as I say!" To which the big billy goat responded "I don't think so, screw you, dickwad!". Whereupon the troll rushed up to grab him, and the goat lowered his head and charged the troll, knocking him over and killing him. Then the billy goat ate the corpse. The end."
As it turns out, in that household goats are vegetarian souls, and trolls are lovable nature beings with fur. Gentle, but sometimes misguided.
Problems are not solved by violence.
My friend's wife has kept me away from little Johnny ever since.
I am, she avers, a horrendously bad influence.
Possibly insane or dangerous.
Stupid softie.
This blogger, you should know, is all about goat-empowerment, and resolutely opposed to the fascism of trolls. Their sense of entitlement has lasted too long, the time has come to reject the hegemony of supernatural Scandinavians in whatever field.
Down with all shaggy Nordic myths, the caprine classes have risen!
Besides, that bridge was supposed to have been paid off years ago.
Last I heard, she was telling the brat that Santa's elves lovingly craft gifts in a well-ventilated factory for a living wage under excellent working conditions, with full benefits, and that the best toys are sustainably green and socially responsible.
Which is just plain wrong.
The reason Santa operates a brutal sweat-shop with no heating and dangerous equipment so far away at the North Pole is that if he tried exploiting elves in the continental United States like that, we'd string his fat red hiney up and torch the warehouse.
Capitalism at its cruelest, several elves crippled each year.
The unions should be righteously outraged.
She's ruining Christmas!
If I were a Christian, I'd get back into her good graces, so that I could tell little Johnny the truth, and try to heal some of the damage her cotton-wool ideas are doing.
But I am not, and I don't really care if little Johnny doesn't 'get it'.
I'm not that fond of children anyway. Not hers.
Christmas shouldn't be about gifts.
Perhaps about goats.
Red goats
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, December 15, 2013
IT'S ALL ABOUT SPORTS AND SPICY FOOD
In the search criteria that drew readers to this blog today are two that stand out: "bonbon Indians", and "fight with no panties". No, lest at this point you conclude that this is an unsavoury site that delves into unsuitable material and leave, I shall hasten to assert that NEITHER of those subjects has EVER been featured here. It is a CLEAN place.
This blogger is a keen supporter of fully clothed fighting. Men who engage in fisticuffs should ALWAYS be properly dressed. A full compliment of underwear, slacks or jeans and overshirts or jerseys, socks, shoes, plus gloves and hats if it is cold outside.
Possibly also raincoats.
If any part of their habiliment includes panties, or not, that is up to them. But they should realize that they'll look mighty silly when the emergency room medical staff discover Hello Kitty under their Fortyniners sweatshirt.
Well, maybe not. This is San Francisco. Emergency room staff see a lot in this city.
The frisson between team logo shmatte above and Hello Kitty frilly below might be what started the fight in the first place.
Among several sportsfans.
One of them probably insisted that Hello Kitty was non-sectarian. And that it was sheer heresy to wear Hello Kitty panties as a lucky garment to jinx the other side. Unsportsmanlike voodoo. So, after several more glasses of Chablis and slamming some Jaegermeisters, the fight was on.
Some men drink too much Chablis.
Typical sportsbar behavior.
BONBON INDIANS
This one truly baffles me. Being a red-blooded male, all I can think of is the stellar hotties in several Bollywood productions. Most of them, of course, female, but maybe the reader wanted hunk-o-ramas.
All such movies have an equal compliment of male and female hot. The producers do not want anyone to walk away disappointed.
Bollywood has made thousands of movies with exactly the same plotline.
Boy meets girl. They are of different backgrounds. There is a song. Numerous extras dance. Boy loses girl, because they are of different backgrounds. There is a song. Numerous extras dance.
Boy and girl meet under very public and logical circumstances, which are nevertheless presented as miraculous good luck. Boy daringly says something innocently appealing, girl laughingly or sarcastically snubs boy. They sing and dance. Numerous extras join them.
Bad guy see girl, boasts to henchmen. Girl avoids bad man. Song. Dance.
Girl realizes that she actually rather likes boy ("I've grown accustomed to his face"). Song. In the rain, at night, on a rooftop or in a deserted commercial street. As the downpour plasters her sari to her body.
Often, numerous dancing extras appear.
No, I don't know how it ends. At this point I usually go out into the lobby for some Indian snackipoos, and end up in a discussion with Latifbhai at the samosa stand about the comparative virtues of several Indian singers. Mohammed Rafi, for instance, has a voice that even a red blooded man can fall in love with.
By his dulcet singing alone, he's a total bonbon Indian.
Lata Mangeshkar? Even more bonbonish yet.
Asha Bosle is the most bonbon.
[The last two are female.]
Mmmmmmm, bonbons.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This blogger is a keen supporter of fully clothed fighting. Men who engage in fisticuffs should ALWAYS be properly dressed. A full compliment of underwear, slacks or jeans and overshirts or jerseys, socks, shoes, plus gloves and hats if it is cold outside.
Possibly also raincoats.
If any part of their habiliment includes panties, or not, that is up to them. But they should realize that they'll look mighty silly when the emergency room medical staff discover Hello Kitty under their Fortyniners sweatshirt.
Well, maybe not. This is San Francisco. Emergency room staff see a lot in this city.
The frisson between team logo shmatte above and Hello Kitty frilly below might be what started the fight in the first place.
Among several sportsfans.
One of them probably insisted that Hello Kitty was non-sectarian. And that it was sheer heresy to wear Hello Kitty panties as a lucky garment to jinx the other side. Unsportsmanlike voodoo. So, after several more glasses of Chablis and slamming some Jaegermeisters, the fight was on.
Some men drink too much Chablis.
Typical sportsbar behavior.
BONBON INDIANS
This one truly baffles me. Being a red-blooded male, all I can think of is the stellar hotties in several Bollywood productions. Most of them, of course, female, but maybe the reader wanted hunk-o-ramas.
All such movies have an equal compliment of male and female hot. The producers do not want anyone to walk away disappointed.
Bollywood has made thousands of movies with exactly the same plotline.
Boy meets girl. They are of different backgrounds. There is a song. Numerous extras dance. Boy loses girl, because they are of different backgrounds. There is a song. Numerous extras dance.
Boy and girl meet under very public and logical circumstances, which are nevertheless presented as miraculous good luck. Boy daringly says something innocently appealing, girl laughingly or sarcastically snubs boy. They sing and dance. Numerous extras join them.
Bad guy see girl, boasts to henchmen. Girl avoids bad man. Song. Dance.
Girl realizes that she actually rather likes boy ("I've grown accustomed to his face"). Song. In the rain, at night, on a rooftop or in a deserted commercial street. As the downpour plasters her sari to her body.
Often, numerous dancing extras appear.
No, I don't know how it ends. At this point I usually go out into the lobby for some Indian snackipoos, and end up in a discussion with Latifbhai at the samosa stand about the comparative virtues of several Indian singers. Mohammed Rafi, for instance, has a voice that even a red blooded man can fall in love with.
By his dulcet singing alone, he's a total bonbon Indian.
Lata Mangeshkar? Even more bonbonish yet.
Asha Bosle is the most bonbon.
[The last two are female.]
Mmmmmmm, bonbons.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SINGLE WHITE MALE AND GREAT BUNS IN CHINATOWN
Late in the day the single male desires something to eat. So, of course, does the single female. Except that unlike the single male, the single female probably gravitates toward a place that sells salad with low sodium zero fat sawdust croutons.
Really I cannot praise those low sodium zero fat sawdust croutons enough. They are a profound blessing. Naturally wilted green stuff, low sodium zero fat sawdust croutons, and some tasty toasted tofu.
The single male prefers food that comforts. And is nice to eat.
Over good karma dietary benefits and crap.
Give me something yummy.
I've never seen such enormous buns before. The counterwoman, whom I recognized from somewhere else last year, explained that they had chicken meat, egg, mushroom, and lapcheung inside.
So I bought one. It was very cheap.
Probably the most affordable lunch in Chinatown.
好旺利
732 Jackson Street
San Francisco, CA 94133
(415) 986-3759
They've not been open very long, possibly about ten or twelve months now. The place that was there before (容記糕粉 'yong kee kou fun') closed down sometime in 2012. It had been around for several decades, but I guess the current generation of the family didn't want to continue. That happens a lot. The first two or three generations work their fingers raw in Chinatown, then the family prospers and goes to college, and it becomes counterproductive to work long hours at miserably low pay when with a medical or engineering degree you can do so very much more with your life.
Things change.
Sad.
Still, someone has to keep feeding the locals.
Especially all the single white males who love big buns.
The buns are steamed and pillowy, the filling consists of chopped spiced chicken meat, with a peeled whole hardboiled egg (煮蛋 'jiu daan'), one or two whole black mushroom (香菇 'heung gu'), and a thick slice of Chinese sausage (臘腸 'laap cheung') to add its fragrance.
I don't know what they call it, but asking for 大蒸飽 ('daai jeng baau': big steamed bun), or alternatively 大雞飽 ('daai gai baau': big chicken bun) should get you what you want. It might also be called a 雞球大包 ('gai kau daai baau': chicken chunks big bun).
It's a known quantity in both C'town and Hongkong.
Hardly a dimsum item, due to size.
More of a meal.
There's no place to sit down, so buy one for take-out, with a cup of Hongkong-style milk-tea (港式奶茶 'gong-sik naai-chaa'), and find somewhere quiet to stuff your face.
They also have lots of other food. No, I haven't tried it, but it all looks clean and fresh and promising. Those big beautiful buns, however, particularly caught my hungry eye.
I am a single white male.
I cannot help it.
Scallion bread, egg tarts, potstickers, chindeui, coconut muffins, ham and corn salad buns, siu mai, har gow, red bean pastries, malai gou, taro dumplings, haahm sui gok, crunchy fried shrimp balls, lowmai bao, charsiu kuen, steamed rice sheet .......
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Really I cannot praise those low sodium zero fat sawdust croutons enough. They are a profound blessing. Naturally wilted green stuff, low sodium zero fat sawdust croutons, and some tasty toasted tofu.
The single male prefers food that comforts. And is nice to eat.
Over good karma dietary benefits and crap.
Give me something yummy.
I've never seen such enormous buns before. The counterwoman, whom I recognized from somewhere else last year, explained that they had chicken meat, egg, mushroom, and lapcheung inside.
So I bought one. It was very cheap.
Probably the most affordable lunch in Chinatown.
好旺利
732 Jackson Street
San Francisco, CA 94133
(415) 986-3759
They've not been open very long, possibly about ten or twelve months now. The place that was there before (容記糕粉 'yong kee kou fun') closed down sometime in 2012. It had been around for several decades, but I guess the current generation of the family didn't want to continue. That happens a lot. The first two or three generations work their fingers raw in Chinatown, then the family prospers and goes to college, and it becomes counterproductive to work long hours at miserably low pay when with a medical or engineering degree you can do so very much more with your life.
Things change.
Sad.
Still, someone has to keep feeding the locals.
Especially all the single white males who love big buns.
The buns are steamed and pillowy, the filling consists of chopped spiced chicken meat, with a peeled whole hardboiled egg (煮蛋 'jiu daan'), one or two whole black mushroom (香菇 'heung gu'), and a thick slice of Chinese sausage (臘腸 'laap cheung') to add its fragrance.
I don't know what they call it, but asking for 大蒸飽 ('daai jeng baau': big steamed bun), or alternatively 大雞飽 ('daai gai baau': big chicken bun) should get you what you want. It might also be called a 雞球大包 ('gai kau daai baau': chicken chunks big bun).
It's a known quantity in both C'town and Hongkong.
Hardly a dimsum item, due to size.
More of a meal.
There's no place to sit down, so buy one for take-out, with a cup of Hongkong-style milk-tea (港式奶茶 'gong-sik naai-chaa'), and find somewhere quiet to stuff your face.
They also have lots of other food. No, I haven't tried it, but it all looks clean and fresh and promising. Those big beautiful buns, however, particularly caught my hungry eye.
I am a single white male.
I cannot help it.
Scallion bread, egg tarts, potstickers, chindeui, coconut muffins, ham and corn salad buns, siu mai, har gow, red bean pastries, malai gou, taro dumplings, haahm sui gok, crunchy fried shrimp balls, lowmai bao, charsiu kuen, steamed rice sheet .......
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, December 14, 2013
WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO ON SATURDAY NIGHT?
Chances are that when you read this, I'll be somewhere smoking a pipe. Or happily slurping a cup of Hongkong-style milk-tea. Seeing as I am very much a creature of habit. Not sedentary, just self-indulgent.
Good pipe-tobacco. Hot hot tea. And someone else.
The third element is missing at present.
Eventually, though.
What would you rather do on a Saturday Night?
Well, many Saturday evenings I end up where there are other smokers. Mostly cigar aficionados, but given how few places allow smoking indoors, a man should not be picky.
Unfortunately, there is a lack of milk-tea there.
It is a baffling oversight.
They also lack comfy chairs, sofas, and loveseats, as well as low tables on which one might place a tea-tray, having opted instead for standard-issue bar-furniture and two large televisions. Which may explain why nice women who could be interested in a pipe-smoking single-man of ready wit and foxy profile -- such as, as just a totally hypothetical example, myself -- avoid the place in droves.
Trust me, not a single one is there.
NICE WOMEN?
Nice women require tea. And a warm comfortable place to sit. Or to recline. As well as clean and convenient surfaces for cups, saucers, handbags, a trenchcoat flung with casual elegance to dry somewhere, and also a spot where they can put their feminine man-purse in which they keep a Peterson or Dunhill for indulging in a bit of Greg Pease's Westminster -- medium full Latakia, precisely what an old-fashioned English pipe-tobacco should be -- when their parents or disapproving colleagues, or even heaven forfend their younger siblings, aren't around to protest.
Plus cookies; nice women love cookies.
Sure, you smoke elsewhere. But it's a furtive puff. A furtive half-hour. Of puffing. Which in this weather is a miserable experience unless you are bundled up. See aforementioned trenchcoat, now add a thick muffler.
Being a hot-blooded middle-aged Dutch-American man (imagine all the hyphenating I could do!), I would offer you a place to do that in peace and quiet, but seeing as my apartment mate is a fervent non-smoker of conviction, the best I can manage at present is an arm to lean on, as we both shelter in an abandoned doorway somewhere along Polk Street. You with your quirkily pungent Latakia mixture, I with my mature Virginia flake. There's probably someplace where we can get warm afterwards. Bob's Donuts isn't too far away. Although it's presently filled with young drunks, barely post-college and fully twitterized.
Might be fun. Nice to be with someone. Still, the weather.
I can bring a big knitted throw, and then we can freeze our toes off, very discreetly huddling just outside the ruined church. I'm sure that the resident raccoons wouldn't mind. They can be bribed.
All they need is pizza and beer.
Rather like frat-boys.
Alternatively, screw up your courage and drop by the aforementioned place sometime where the cigar-smokers are. I'll protect you from the middle-aged British sex-maniac, as well as the "date anything that moves" smuggler of Cuban cigars, plus the "Why Hello There!" creepazoid wearing dubious clothing.
They're easily dented.
And don't worry, I know how to get lipstick off a pipe-stem.
I'll make sure to have extra pipe-cleaners.
And loads more hyphens.
This post is a perfectly clean obscene proposition.
Except for the tobacco odour that adheres to it.
Burnt-leaf fragrances are part of the deal.
Milk-tea. A bite to eat. And Latakia.
Perspicacity is a requirement.
Raccoons are optional.
NOTE: over two dozen hyphens were harmed in the writing of this post. Sorry.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Good pipe-tobacco. Hot hot tea. And someone else.
The third element is missing at present.
Eventually, though.
What would you rather do on a Saturday Night?
Well, many Saturday evenings I end up where there are other smokers. Mostly cigar aficionados, but given how few places allow smoking indoors, a man should not be picky.
Unfortunately, there is a lack of milk-tea there.
It is a baffling oversight.
They also lack comfy chairs, sofas, and loveseats, as well as low tables on which one might place a tea-tray, having opted instead for standard-issue bar-furniture and two large televisions. Which may explain why nice women who could be interested in a pipe-smoking single-man of ready wit and foxy profile -- such as, as just a totally hypothetical example, myself -- avoid the place in droves.
Trust me, not a single one is there.
NICE WOMEN?
Nice women require tea. And a warm comfortable place to sit. Or to recline. As well as clean and convenient surfaces for cups, saucers, handbags, a trenchcoat flung with casual elegance to dry somewhere, and also a spot where they can put their feminine man-purse in which they keep a Peterson or Dunhill for indulging in a bit of Greg Pease's Westminster -- medium full Latakia, precisely what an old-fashioned English pipe-tobacco should be -- when their parents or disapproving colleagues, or even heaven forfend their younger siblings, aren't around to protest.
Plus cookies; nice women love cookies.
Sure, you smoke elsewhere. But it's a furtive puff. A furtive half-hour. Of puffing. Which in this weather is a miserable experience unless you are bundled up. See aforementioned trenchcoat, now add a thick muffler.
Being a hot-blooded middle-aged Dutch-American man (imagine all the hyphenating I could do!), I would offer you a place to do that in peace and quiet, but seeing as my apartment mate is a fervent non-smoker of conviction, the best I can manage at present is an arm to lean on, as we both shelter in an abandoned doorway somewhere along Polk Street. You with your quirkily pungent Latakia mixture, I with my mature Virginia flake. There's probably someplace where we can get warm afterwards. Bob's Donuts isn't too far away. Although it's presently filled with young drunks, barely post-college and fully twitterized.
Might be fun. Nice to be with someone. Still, the weather.
I can bring a big knitted throw, and then we can freeze our toes off, very discreetly huddling just outside the ruined church. I'm sure that the resident raccoons wouldn't mind. They can be bribed.
All they need is pizza and beer.
Rather like frat-boys.
Alternatively, screw up your courage and drop by the aforementioned place sometime where the cigar-smokers are. I'll protect you from the middle-aged British sex-maniac, as well as the "date anything that moves" smuggler of Cuban cigars, plus the "Why Hello There!" creepazoid wearing dubious clothing.
They're easily dented.
And don't worry, I know how to get lipstick off a pipe-stem.
I'll make sure to have extra pipe-cleaners.
And loads more hyphens.
This post is a perfectly clean obscene proposition.
Except for the tobacco odour that adheres to it.
Burnt-leaf fragrances are part of the deal.
Milk-tea. A bite to eat. And Latakia.
Perspicacity is a requirement.
Raccoons are optional.
NOTE: over two dozen hyphens were harmed in the writing of this post. Sorry.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, December 13, 2013
A TORCH SONG FOR CLOSING
It was the end of the evening. The obnoxious white dude and his two dumb friends had finally left, stumbling around the corner to the burger joint. If they had stayed any longer, there might have been mayhem. The bartender had remonstrated with him several times, pointing out that throwing peanut shells at the other patrons was a no-no, loud foul language might irritate nearby customers, and, very diplomatically, that being a total dick was entirely counterproductive.
In Chinese she agreed with me that he was rude, crude, unreasonable, drunk, and already smelled bad.
After the last Cantonese patron had sung, she chose her own song on the karaoke.
All singing except for the dick and his dummies had been in Mandarin.
What she selected was also in Mandarin, very Taiwanese.
A ballad about the transience of romance.
昨夜星辰 —— LAST NIGHT'S STARS
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yGUh3B6Nl60.]
Singer: 林淑容 Anna Lin
[Born August 9, 1960. Sings in Mandarin and Taiwanese.]
昨夜星辰 Last Night's Stars
作詞: 楓頌 Lyric: Feng Chung
作曲: 童真知子 Composer: Naively Knowing
昨夜的 Last night's...
昨夜的星辰已墜落 Last night's stars have fallen,
消失在遙遠的銀河 Disappeared into the Milky Way;
想記起 偏又已忘記 Want to recall - they've already faded.
那份愛換來的是寂寞 With that love came loneliness.
愛是不變的星辰 Love is... stars that do not change,
愛是永恆的星辰 Love is... stars that last forever.
絕不在銀河中墜落 That never fall into the Milky Way.
常憶著那份情那份愛 Always remember the passion, the love;
昨夜星辰今夜星辰 Last night's stars, and tonight's stars,
依然閃爍 Are still shining.
今夜的 Tonight's...
今夜的星辰依然閃爍 Tonight's stars are still shining,
象眼神點燃愛的火 Like eyes lit with the fire of love;
想得到 偏又怕失去 Afraid once more to lose,
那份愛深深埋在心窩 The affection that shelters deep inside;
愛是不變的星辰 Love is... unchangeable starlight,
愛是永恆的星辰 Love is... eternal starlight.
絕不在銀河中墜落 No longer here but lost in the Milky Way.
常憶著那份情那份愛 Always remember the passion, the love;
今夜星辰今夜星辰 Last night's stars, and tonight's stars,
依然閃爍 Are still shining.
Zuóyè de...
Zuóyè de xīngchén yǐ zhuìluò
Xiāoshī zài yáoyuǎn de yínhé
Xiǎng jì qǐ piān yòu yǐ wàngjì
Nà fèn ài huàn lái de shì jìmò.
.
Ài shì bù biàn de xīngchén
Ài shì yǒnghéng de xīngchén
Jué bùzài yínhé zhōng zhuìluò
Cháng yìzhe nà fèn qíng nà fèn ài.
.
Zuóyè xīngchén jīnyè xīngchén
Yīrán shǎnshuò.
...
Jīnyè de...
Jīnyè de xīngchén yīrán shǎnshuò
Xiang yǎnshén diǎnrán ài de huǒ
Xiǎngdédào piān yòu pà shīqù
Nà fèn ài shēn shēn mái zài xīnwō.
.
Ài shì bù biàn de xīngchén
Ài shì yǒnghéng de xīngchén
Jué bùzài yínhé zhōng zhuìluò
Cháng yìzhe nà fèn qíng nà fèn ài.
.
Jīnyè xīngchén jīnyè xīngchén
Yīrán shǎnshuò.
...
The bookseller and I each had three drinks. Jamesons. We left after her song. She sings well. Far better than the stupid white people.
We wandered up Pacific, past the Ginkgo trees outside Ping Yuen, now yellowed, and scattering leaves to make the pavement light.
A cold crisp evening, allegedly still Autumn.
But it is definitely Winter.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In Chinese she agreed with me that he was rude, crude, unreasonable, drunk, and already smelled bad.
After the last Cantonese patron had sung, she chose her own song on the karaoke.
All singing except for the dick and his dummies had been in Mandarin.
What she selected was also in Mandarin, very Taiwanese.
A ballad about the transience of romance.
昨夜星辰 —— LAST NIGHT'S STARS
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yGUh3B6Nl60.]
Singer: 林淑容 Anna Lin
[Born August 9, 1960. Sings in Mandarin and Taiwanese.]
昨夜星辰 Last Night's Stars
作詞: 楓頌 Lyric: Feng Chung
作曲: 童真知子 Composer: Naively Knowing
昨夜的 Last night's...
昨夜的星辰已墜落 Last night's stars have fallen,
消失在遙遠的銀河 Disappeared into the Milky Way;
想記起 偏又已忘記 Want to recall - they've already faded.
那份愛換來的是寂寞 With that love came loneliness.
愛是不變的星辰 Love is... stars that do not change,
愛是永恆的星辰 Love is... stars that last forever.
絕不在銀河中墜落 That never fall into the Milky Way.
常憶著那份情那份愛 Always remember the passion, the love;
昨夜星辰今夜星辰 Last night's stars, and tonight's stars,
依然閃爍 Are still shining.
今夜的 Tonight's...
今夜的星辰依然閃爍 Tonight's stars are still shining,
象眼神點燃愛的火 Like eyes lit with the fire of love;
想得到 偏又怕失去 Afraid once more to lose,
那份愛深深埋在心窩 The affection that shelters deep inside;
愛是不變的星辰 Love is... unchangeable starlight,
愛是永恆的星辰 Love is... eternal starlight.
絕不在銀河中墜落 No longer here but lost in the Milky Way.
常憶著那份情那份愛 Always remember the passion, the love;
今夜星辰今夜星辰 Last night's stars, and tonight's stars,
依然閃爍 Are still shining.
Zuóyè de...
Zuóyè de xīngchén yǐ zhuìluò
Xiāoshī zài yáoyuǎn de yínhé
Xiǎng jì qǐ piān yòu yǐ wàngjì
Nà fèn ài huàn lái de shì jìmò.
.
Ài shì bù biàn de xīngchén
Ài shì yǒnghéng de xīngchén
Jué bùzài yínhé zhōng zhuìluò
Cháng yìzhe nà fèn qíng nà fèn ài.
.
Zuóyè xīngchén jīnyè xīngchén
Yīrán shǎnshuò.
...
Jīnyè de...
Jīnyè de xīngchén yīrán shǎnshuò
Xiang yǎnshén diǎnrán ài de huǒ
Xiǎngdédào piān yòu pà shīqù
Nà fèn ài shēn shēn mái zài xīnwō.
.
Ài shì bù biàn de xīngchén
Ài shì yǒnghéng de xīngchén
Jué bùzài yínhé zhōng zhuìluò
Cháng yìzhe nà fèn qíng nà fèn ài.
.
Jīnyè xīngchén jīnyè xīngchén
Yīrán shǎnshuò.
...
The bookseller and I each had three drinks. Jamesons. We left after her song. She sings well. Far better than the stupid white people.
We wandered up Pacific, past the Ginkgo trees outside Ping Yuen, now yellowed, and scattering leaves to make the pavement light.
A cold crisp evening, allegedly still Autumn.
But it is definitely Winter.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, December 12, 2013
THREE HUNDRED POEMS
When I left the house for lunch in Chinatown yesterday it felt like good things were going to happen. Let's just say that my senses were fair tingling with such an expectation.
My senses did not let me down.
During lunch I ended up in conversation with a nice gentleman from Jiangsu (江蘇 'gong sou') province, long a resident of our city.
We had to share a table, and we ate similar things.
I would have had the preserved egg and lean pork porridge (皮蛋瘦肉粥 'pei daan sau yiuk juk'), except I noticed him ordering that, and I did not want to seem to be imitating. Besides, I speak Cantonese, and can read the stuff on the wall.
Show-off time: Request the congee with dried fish and peanuts (柴魚花生粥 'chaai-yü faa-sang juk'). It's written in Chinese.
"Firewood fish" (柴魚 'chaai yü') really tells you what it is. Fatty tuna blanched, dried over heat, fermented with specific strains of bacteria, and lastly sawed into pieces, fragmented, or even finely ground for flavouring. The Japanese use something very similar for their miso soup (味噌汁 'mei chang jap').
Instead of chaai-yü it's called katsuo bushi (鰹節 'gin jit').
I do not think I've ever discussed Old English, Middle English, Early Modern English, and Germanic linguistics with someone from Northern China before.
[Yes yes, I do know that Jiangsu is central-south. But it's far to the north of Lingnan (嶺南), two language groups removed from Canton, and pushing up against the Mandarin Belt. So it's north. Almost as north as you can get.]
His son is taking Latin (拉丁語) in college.
Which is almost as practical as 古文.
Or, for that matter, Old English.
[By the way: the first strophe of Beowulf (hwæt, we Gardena in geardagum, þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon, hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon) is identified as 'Icelandic' by Google Translate. This is giving those wall-fish eating heathens way too much credit. Instead, a different bunch of savages are lauded: the Bright Speared Danes.]
After a pleasant post-prandial chat we parted ways. I left the restaurant and lit a pipe, wandering first through Spofford (新呂宋巷 'san leui song hong'), then up to Hang Ah Alley (香雅巷 'heung ya hong'), which is now also called Pagoda Alley (寶塔巷 'pou taap hong'), before finally circling around through Waverly (天后廟街 'tin hou miu kai') and down to Grant (都板街 'dou pan kai'). Eventually, after finishing my pipe, I ended up in a cluster of indoor shops. Great Source Commercial.
Where I ended up purchasing a copy of the Three Hundred Poems of the Tang Dynasty. Of which I already have several copies.
That I cannot find.
See, the problem is that I keep pulling a copy to look something up, whereupon it ends up in another stack, eventually covered by other books...... Earlier today I tried to find Mathews Dictionary of Chinese, but neither copy of that could be found. I'm sure I have both of them somewhere. Along with all copies of the Three Hundred Poems.
Somewhere. Don't know where.
Not a clue.
So indeed, I needed another one.
The elderly proprietor was so tickled at finding someone who gave a damn that he cut me a deal. How could I resist?
I think he'd had the book for years.
It's finally found a home.
唐詩三百首
The Three Hundred Tang Poems is a classic anthology compiled by the Retired Scholar of Heng Tang (衡塘退士 'hang tong teui-si', 1711 - 1778) during the Manchu Dynasty. All the greats are represented within, and since it was first published it has been a constant best-seller. For the truly literate, all is transparent. But like most people, my favourite verses are the ones that I can actually read entirely. Poems with too many words that I have to look up don't rank very high; it is only by repeated exposure that more examples get added to the list.
Many of the words are of little use in daily life.
Some only appear rarely at best.
Others not at all.
Evenso, re-reading the Three Hundred Poems of Tang is like revisiting lost places, which one had last seen very long ago, and again meeting the people who once were familiar.
Part of the reason for that is of course the re-sparked memories, but a larger part is due to the nature of Chinese literati versifying, namely to impart a sense of empathy with those who are elsewhere and elsewhen. Much of the output of the great poets was shaped by their own internal exiles and that of their friends and relatives, and a significant portion of what they wrote shared a sensitivity to time and place with the people whom they were sure would read their writings.
Fellow exiles, wanderers, transients.
Floating scholars.
Imagine the following sample as a series of letters floating in and out of inboxes, as members of the same social network communicate with each other and connect. Marginalia, perhaps; query or comment on their circumstances, certainly; the writers are observant, and show a heightened sensitivity to strange stimulation. Everything has newness.
As stigmata of their displacement, there is a sharp cognizance of detail.
夜雨寄北 YE YU JI BEI
By 李商隐 (Li Shangyin)
君問歸期未有期，巴山夜雨漲秋池。
何當共剪西窗燭，卻話巴山夜雨時。
Jūn wèn guī-qī wèi yǒu qī, bāshān yè yǔ zhǎng qiū chí.
Hé dāng gòng jiǎn xī chuāng zhú, què huà bā shān yè yǔ shí.
EVENING RAIN WHILE RESIDING IN THE NORTH
"You ask me when I will return, but I have no date set; the evening rain on Ba Mountain makes the autumn pool overflow; when shall we once more trim wicks together at the western window? Let's just say that it will be when autumn comes again on Ba Mountain."
YE YU GEI PAAK
Gwan man gwai kei mei yau kei, baa saan ye yu jeung chau chi;
Ho dong gong jin sai cheung juk, keuk wa baa saan ye yu si.
Note: 巴山夜雨漲秋池 can also be read to mean "my exile in this strange and godforsaken place has topped all extremes".
山行 SHAN XING
By 項斯 (Xiang Si)
青櫪林深亦有人，一渠流水數家分。
山當日午回峰影，草帶泥痕過鹿群。
蒸茗氣從茅舍出，繰絲聲隔竹籬聞。
行逢賣藥歸來客，不惜相隨入島雲。
Qīng lì lín shēn yì yǒu rén, yī qú liú shuǐ shǔ jiā fēn.
Shān dāng rì wǔ huí fēng yǐng, cǎo dài ní hén guò lù qún.
Zhēng míng qì cóng máo-shè chū, zǎo sī shēng gé zhú lí wén.
Xíng féng mài yào guī-lái kè, bù xī xiāng suí rù dǎo yún.
WANDERING IN THE MOUNTAINS
"In the verdant depths of the forest there are also people; along a stream there may live several households; during the day the sun delineates the peaks; grass casts stripes to hide the deer;
Tea fragrance comes from a rustic cottage; reeling silk whispersounds cross the garden fence; back from selling herbs the recluse wanders; with sure tread re-entering his island clouds."
SAAN HANG
Ching lik lam sam yik yau yan, yat keui lau seui sou gaa fan;
Saan dong yat ng wui fung, chou daai nai han gwo luk kwan.
Jhing ming hei chung maau se chut, chiu si seng gaak juk lei man;
Haang fung mai yeuk gwai loi haak, pat sik seung cheui yap dou wan.
夜雪 YE XUE
By 白居易 (Bai Juyi)
已訝衾枕冷，復見窗戶明。
夜深知雪重，時聞折竹聲。
Yǐ yà qīn zhěn lěng, fù jiàn chuāng-hù míng.
Yè shēn zhī xuě zhòng, shí wén zhé zhú shēng.
NIGHT SNOW
"Already astounded by the cold of my blanket and pillow, the brightness at the window added to that;
Late at night I knew the snow was thick, when I heard the cracking of bamboo."
YE SUET
yi ngaa kam ngam laang, fuk kin cheung wu ming;
ye sam ji suet chung, si man jit juk seng.
春雪 CHUN XUE
By 韓愈 (Han Yu)
新年都未有芳華，二月初驚見草芽。
白雪卻嫌春色晚，故穿庭樹作飛花。
Xīn nián dōu wèi yǒu fāng huá, èr yuè chū jīng jiàn cǎo yá.
Bái xuě què xián chūn-sè wǎn, gù chuān ting shù zuò fēi huā.
SPRING SNOW
"This new year still lacks fragrance, even by the second month it is startling to see buds;
Though white snow delays the colouration of Spring, a courtyard tree defiantly blossoms."
CHUN SUET
San nin dou mei yau fong waa, yi yuet cho geng kin chou ngaa;
Paak suet keuk yim cheun sik maan, gu chuen ting syue jok fei faa.
春思 CHUN SI
By 賈至 (Jia Zhi)
草色青青柳色黃，桃花歷亂李花香。
東風不為吹愁去，春日偏能惹恨長。
Cǎo-sè qīng-qīng liǔ-sè huáng, táo huā lì luàn li huā xiāng.
Dōng fēng bù wéi chuī chóu qù, chūn rì piān néng rě hèn zhǎng.
SPRING THOUGHTS
"Grasses are intensely green and the willows golden, peach trees riotously blooming and plums fragrant; The east wind does not blow to sadden, Spring days are not suitable for bitterness."
CHUN SI
Chou sik ching ching lau sik wong, tou faa lik-luen lei faa heung;
Tung fong pat wai cheui sau heui, cheun yat pin nang ye han cheung.
月夜憶舍弟 YUE YE YI SHE DI
By 杜甫 (Du Fu)
戍鼓斷人行，秋邊一雁聲。
露從今夜白，月是故鄉明。
有弟皆分散，無家問死生。
寄書長不避，況乃未休兵。
Shù gǔ duàn rén xíng, qiū biān yī yàn shēng.
Lù cóng jīn-yè bái, yuè shì gù-xiāng míng.
Yǒu dì jiē fēn sàn, wú jiā wèn sǐ shēng.
Jì shū cháng bù bì, kuàng nǎi wèi xiū bīng.
REMEMBERING MY BROTHERS BY MOONLIGHT
"Military drums cut the march, far off a migrating goose calls; Dew will be white from this night forward, and the moon is home-town bright;
My younger brothers are scattered hither and yon, with no one at home to ask whether they are alive or dead; mailed letters long await responses, and our troops have no relief."
YUET YE YI SE DAI
Syu gu duen yan hang, chau pin yat ngaan sing;
Lou chung gam ye paak, yue si gu heung ming.
Yau dai gaai fan saan, mou gaa man sei saang;
Gei syu cheung pat pei, fong naai mei yau bing.
It might not be too much to read a note of mild tension in these poems; there is no certainty, all termination is open-ended.
It is, on the other hand, relatively easy to understand how these poets appealed across the generations, when countless of their countrymen experienced distant postings, upheavals, changes of fortune, and displacement. Even today the simple straightforward evocation of something else, and something therefore exceptional, speaks in vibrant verse to the Chinese eye.
I am sorry; my paraphrasis of the texts in English cannot do them justice.
I have tried to give an idea of what they mean, and how they meant it.
POST SCRIPT
While waiting for the Pacific Avenue bus I encountered an old friend. She does not look worried now, and has changed jobs. I am not certain that her current employ gives her the time she needs for her daughter, but she seems less stressed. I hope it will work out.
She has that look of strength, vulnerability, and defiant stubbornness which I find so admirable among certain Cantonese women.
Seeing her again was marvelous.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
My senses did not let me down.
During lunch I ended up in conversation with a nice gentleman from Jiangsu (江蘇 'gong sou') province, long a resident of our city.
We had to share a table, and we ate similar things.
I would have had the preserved egg and lean pork porridge (皮蛋瘦肉粥 'pei daan sau yiuk juk'), except I noticed him ordering that, and I did not want to seem to be imitating. Besides, I speak Cantonese, and can read the stuff on the wall.
Show-off time: Request the congee with dried fish and peanuts (柴魚花生粥 'chaai-yü faa-sang juk'). It's written in Chinese.
"Firewood fish" (柴魚 'chaai yü') really tells you what it is. Fatty tuna blanched, dried over heat, fermented with specific strains of bacteria, and lastly sawed into pieces, fragmented, or even finely ground for flavouring. The Japanese use something very similar for their miso soup (味噌汁 'mei chang jap').
Instead of chaai-yü it's called katsuo bushi (鰹節 'gin jit').
I do not think I've ever discussed Old English, Middle English, Early Modern English, and Germanic linguistics with someone from Northern China before.
[Yes yes, I do know that Jiangsu is central-south. But it's far to the north of Lingnan (嶺南), two language groups removed from Canton, and pushing up against the Mandarin Belt. So it's north. Almost as north as you can get.]
His son is taking Latin (拉丁語) in college.
Which is almost as practical as 古文.
Or, for that matter, Old English.
[By the way: the first strophe of Beowulf (hwæt, we Gardena in geardagum, þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon, hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon) is identified as 'Icelandic' by Google Translate. This is giving those wall-fish eating heathens way too much credit. Instead, a different bunch of savages are lauded: the Bright Speared Danes.]
After a pleasant post-prandial chat we parted ways. I left the restaurant and lit a pipe, wandering first through Spofford (新呂宋巷 'san leui song hong'), then up to Hang Ah Alley (香雅巷 'heung ya hong'), which is now also called Pagoda Alley (寶塔巷 'pou taap hong'), before finally circling around through Waverly (天后廟街 'tin hou miu kai') and down to Grant (都板街 'dou pan kai'). Eventually, after finishing my pipe, I ended up in a cluster of indoor shops. Great Source Commercial.
Where I ended up purchasing a copy of the Three Hundred Poems of the Tang Dynasty. Of which I already have several copies.
That I cannot find.
See, the problem is that I keep pulling a copy to look something up, whereupon it ends up in another stack, eventually covered by other books...... Earlier today I tried to find Mathews Dictionary of Chinese, but neither copy of that could be found. I'm sure I have both of them somewhere. Along with all copies of the Three Hundred Poems.
Somewhere. Don't know where.
Not a clue.
So indeed, I needed another one.
The elderly proprietor was so tickled at finding someone who gave a damn that he cut me a deal. How could I resist?
I think he'd had the book for years.
It's finally found a home.
唐詩三百首
The Three Hundred Tang Poems is a classic anthology compiled by the Retired Scholar of Heng Tang (衡塘退士 'hang tong teui-si', 1711 - 1778) during the Manchu Dynasty. All the greats are represented within, and since it was first published it has been a constant best-seller. For the truly literate, all is transparent. But like most people, my favourite verses are the ones that I can actually read entirely. Poems with too many words that I have to look up don't rank very high; it is only by repeated exposure that more examples get added to the list.
Many of the words are of little use in daily life.
Some only appear rarely at best.
Others not at all.
Evenso, re-reading the Three Hundred Poems of Tang is like revisiting lost places, which one had last seen very long ago, and again meeting the people who once were familiar.
Part of the reason for that is of course the re-sparked memories, but a larger part is due to the nature of Chinese literati versifying, namely to impart a sense of empathy with those who are elsewhere and elsewhen. Much of the output of the great poets was shaped by their own internal exiles and that of their friends and relatives, and a significant portion of what they wrote shared a sensitivity to time and place with the people whom they were sure would read their writings.
Fellow exiles, wanderers, transients.
Floating scholars.
Imagine the following sample as a series of letters floating in and out of inboxes, as members of the same social network communicate with each other and connect. Marginalia, perhaps; query or comment on their circumstances, certainly; the writers are observant, and show a heightened sensitivity to strange stimulation. Everything has newness.
As stigmata of their displacement, there is a sharp cognizance of detail.
夜雨寄北 YE YU JI BEI
By 李商隐 (Li Shangyin)
君問歸期未有期，巴山夜雨漲秋池。
何當共剪西窗燭，卻話巴山夜雨時。
Jūn wèn guī-qī wèi yǒu qī, bāshān yè yǔ zhǎng qiū chí.
Hé dāng gòng jiǎn xī chuāng zhú, què huà bā shān yè yǔ shí.
EVENING RAIN WHILE RESIDING IN THE NORTH
"You ask me when I will return, but I have no date set; the evening rain on Ba Mountain makes the autumn pool overflow; when shall we once more trim wicks together at the western window? Let's just say that it will be when autumn comes again on Ba Mountain."
YE YU GEI PAAK
Gwan man gwai kei mei yau kei, baa saan ye yu jeung chau chi;
Ho dong gong jin sai cheung juk, keuk wa baa saan ye yu si.
Note: 巴山夜雨漲秋池 can also be read to mean "my exile in this strange and godforsaken place has topped all extremes".
山行 SHAN XING
By 項斯 (Xiang Si)
青櫪林深亦有人，一渠流水數家分。
山當日午回峰影，草帶泥痕過鹿群。
蒸茗氣從茅舍出，繰絲聲隔竹籬聞。
行逢賣藥歸來客，不惜相隨入島雲。
Qīng lì lín shēn yì yǒu rén, yī qú liú shuǐ shǔ jiā fēn.
Shān dāng rì wǔ huí fēng yǐng, cǎo dài ní hén guò lù qún.
Zhēng míng qì cóng máo-shè chū, zǎo sī shēng gé zhú lí wén.
Xíng féng mài yào guī-lái kè, bù xī xiāng suí rù dǎo yún.
WANDERING IN THE MOUNTAINS
"In the verdant depths of the forest there are also people; along a stream there may live several households; during the day the sun delineates the peaks; grass casts stripes to hide the deer;
Tea fragrance comes from a rustic cottage; reeling silk whispersounds cross the garden fence; back from selling herbs the recluse wanders; with sure tread re-entering his island clouds."
SAAN HANG
Ching lik lam sam yik yau yan, yat keui lau seui sou gaa fan;
Saan dong yat ng wui fung, chou daai nai han gwo luk kwan.
Jhing ming hei chung maau se chut, chiu si seng gaak juk lei man;
Haang fung mai yeuk gwai loi haak, pat sik seung cheui yap dou wan.
夜雪 YE XUE
By 白居易 (Bai Juyi)
已訝衾枕冷，復見窗戶明。
夜深知雪重，時聞折竹聲。
Yǐ yà qīn zhěn lěng, fù jiàn chuāng-hù míng.
Yè shēn zhī xuě zhòng, shí wén zhé zhú shēng.
NIGHT SNOW
"Already astounded by the cold of my blanket and pillow, the brightness at the window added to that;
Late at night I knew the snow was thick, when I heard the cracking of bamboo."
YE SUET
yi ngaa kam ngam laang, fuk kin cheung wu ming;
ye sam ji suet chung, si man jit juk seng.
春雪 CHUN XUE
By 韓愈 (Han Yu)
新年都未有芳華，二月初驚見草芽。
白雪卻嫌春色晚，故穿庭樹作飛花。
Xīn nián dōu wèi yǒu fāng huá, èr yuè chū jīng jiàn cǎo yá.
Bái xuě què xián chūn-sè wǎn, gù chuān ting shù zuò fēi huā.
SPRING SNOW
"This new year still lacks fragrance, even by the second month it is startling to see buds;
Though white snow delays the colouration of Spring, a courtyard tree defiantly blossoms."
CHUN SUET
San nin dou mei yau fong waa, yi yuet cho geng kin chou ngaa;
Paak suet keuk yim cheun sik maan, gu chuen ting syue jok fei faa.
春思 CHUN SI
By 賈至 (Jia Zhi)
草色青青柳色黃，桃花歷亂李花香。
東風不為吹愁去，春日偏能惹恨長。
Cǎo-sè qīng-qīng liǔ-sè huáng, táo huā lì luàn li huā xiāng.
Dōng fēng bù wéi chuī chóu qù, chūn rì piān néng rě hèn zhǎng.
SPRING THOUGHTS
"Grasses are intensely green and the willows golden, peach trees riotously blooming and plums fragrant; The east wind does not blow to sadden, Spring days are not suitable for bitterness."
CHUN SI
Chou sik ching ching lau sik wong, tou faa lik-luen lei faa heung;
Tung fong pat wai cheui sau heui, cheun yat pin nang ye han cheung.
月夜憶舍弟 YUE YE YI SHE DI
By 杜甫 (Du Fu)
戍鼓斷人行，秋邊一雁聲。
露從今夜白，月是故鄉明。
有弟皆分散，無家問死生。
寄書長不避，況乃未休兵。
Shù gǔ duàn rén xíng, qiū biān yī yàn shēng.
Lù cóng jīn-yè bái, yuè shì gù-xiāng míng.
Yǒu dì jiē fēn sàn, wú jiā wèn sǐ shēng.
Jì shū cháng bù bì, kuàng nǎi wèi xiū bīng.
REMEMBERING MY BROTHERS BY MOONLIGHT
"Military drums cut the march, far off a migrating goose calls; Dew will be white from this night forward, and the moon is home-town bright;
My younger brothers are scattered hither and yon, with no one at home to ask whether they are alive or dead; mailed letters long await responses, and our troops have no relief."
YUET YE YI SE DAI
Syu gu duen yan hang, chau pin yat ngaan sing;
Lou chung gam ye paak, yue si gu heung ming.
Yau dai gaai fan saan, mou gaa man sei saang;
Gei syu cheung pat pei, fong naai mei yau bing.
It might not be too much to read a note of mild tension in these poems; there is no certainty, all termination is open-ended.
It is, on the other hand, relatively easy to understand how these poets appealed across the generations, when countless of their countrymen experienced distant postings, upheavals, changes of fortune, and displacement. Even today the simple straightforward evocation of something else, and something therefore exceptional, speaks in vibrant verse to the Chinese eye.
I am sorry; my paraphrasis of the texts in English cannot do them justice.
I have tried to give an idea of what they mean, and how they meant it.
POST SCRIPT
While waiting for the Pacific Avenue bus I encountered an old friend. She does not look worried now, and has changed jobs. I am not certain that her current employ gives her the time she needs for her daughter, but she seems less stressed. I hope it will work out.
She has that look of strength, vulnerability, and defiant stubbornness which I find so admirable among certain Cantonese women.
Seeing her again was marvelous.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
A FEARSOME LANGUAGE: 温州話
Pursuant a discussion on the facebook page of "nummer 39 met rijst" anent Dutch racism, particularly the casual bigotry displayed towards people of Chinese ancestry in the Netherlands, it struck me that among the Chinese Netherlanders there are, in fact, two common tongues: Dutch and English.
The reason for this is simple. Recent immigrants are familiar with English and still learning Dutch. People born there, however, grow up speaking Dutch on a daily basis, but learn English in highschool.
Neither Dutch nor English are Mandarin.
Which is the dominant form of Chinese.
So what do Dutch Chinese learn from their parents?
More than likely, the family does not speak Mandarin around the dinner table. Nor, in all likelihood, Cantonese, which is the most common form of Chinese in San Francisco, despite all those snooty provincials from elsewhere opening foot massage places in C'town.
One of the languages spoken around the dinner table is Wen Chow dialect.
Which is almighty peculiar.
天不怕地不怕，就怕温州人説温州話!
["Tin pat paa tei pat paa, jau paa wan jau yan suet wan jau waa!"]
Wenzhouhua (溫州話) is part of the Wu language (吳語) family, which is the dominant speech in Shanghai (上海), Soochow (蘇州), Hangchow (杭州), Ningpo (寧波), Chinhwa (金華) and Shiaohsing (紹興), et autres regiones, and is know for being soft and hissing, much like a leaky steamheater in an older apartment.
[吳語 Ng-yu: One of the major branches of Sinitic which started developing over two and a half millennia ago. 上海 Seung hoi: Shanghai, a well-known mercantile coastal metropolis that rose to prominence during the great age of imperialism.
蘇州 Sou jau: One of eastern China's great cultural cities, known for flowers, gardens (蘇州園林 'sou jau yuen lam'), poetry, and clear-skinned women. It is located an the Grand Canal (大運河 'daai wan ho'), which was built over several centuries, starting during the Spring And Autumn Period (春秋時代 771 BCE to 476 BCE), and continuing on through Sui (隋 581-618) and subsequent dynasties.
It was restored during Ming (大明 1368–1644) and Ch'ing (大清 1644–1912).
杭州 Hong jau: One of Chinese famous cities of culture, about which much poetry has been written, and where many famous intellectuals spent formative years. It is said that above us there is heaven, while here on earth there are Hangchow and Soochow (上有天堂下有蘇杭 'seung yau tin tong, haa yau sou hong').
寧波 Ning pou: an important commercial city on the coast. 金華 Kam waa: well-known for superior hams. 紹興 Siu hing: where the best yellow wine comes from.
Note: pronunciations in Cantonese, because that is the most useful.]
Among the Wu dialects there is considerable differentiation, with often a very low degree of mutual intelligibility. The elegant Soochow dialect has the greatest status, with Shanghainese (which largely derives from it) being given far less respect.
Wenchowese is the most peculiar.
"Fear not heaven, fear not earth; just fear Wenchow people speaking the Wenchow language!"
As Wu languages go, its divergence from the norm is due to isolation and the proximity of North-Eastern Min (閩東語), from which it has borrowed much. The situation is analogous to English, a Germanic language with a huge amount of Mediaeval French and Latin. That then is compounded by unique phonology and tones. With, of course, the accepted written language utilizing a vocabulary seldom encountered in speech.
No, this blogger does not speak Wenzhouhua. The local restaurant in the town where I grew up was owned by folks from Zhejiang (浙江 'jit gong'), but the kitchen staff were Cantonese, and the headwaiter came from Shanghai. Although everyone had spent time in Hongkong.
So I've heard something similar (Wenchow is located in Zhejiang), both from the proprietors and their families, and the headwaiter.
But I never learned it.
A pity, because one of the young ladies was extraordinarily nice.
It's something I've always regretted.
門不當，戶不對。
["Mun pat dong, wu pat deui."]
She entered highschool when I was already finishing my fourth year.
It would have been unsuitable, even by Dutch standards.
There was just too great a differential there.
Despite two languages in common.
Even so, she was very nice.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The reason for this is simple. Recent immigrants are familiar with English and still learning Dutch. People born there, however, grow up speaking Dutch on a daily basis, but learn English in highschool.
Neither Dutch nor English are Mandarin.
Which is the dominant form of Chinese.
So what do Dutch Chinese learn from their parents?
More than likely, the family does not speak Mandarin around the dinner table. Nor, in all likelihood, Cantonese, which is the most common form of Chinese in San Francisco, despite all those snooty provincials from elsewhere opening foot massage places in C'town.
One of the languages spoken around the dinner table is Wen Chow dialect.
Which is almighty peculiar.
天不怕地不怕，就怕温州人説温州話!
["Tin pat paa tei pat paa, jau paa wan jau yan suet wan jau waa!"]
Wenzhouhua (溫州話) is part of the Wu language (吳語) family, which is the dominant speech in Shanghai (上海), Soochow (蘇州), Hangchow (杭州), Ningpo (寧波), Chinhwa (金華) and Shiaohsing (紹興), et autres regiones, and is know for being soft and hissing, much like a leaky steamheater in an older apartment.
[吳語 Ng-yu: One of the major branches of Sinitic which started developing over two and a half millennia ago. 上海 Seung hoi: Shanghai, a well-known mercantile coastal metropolis that rose to prominence during the great age of imperialism.
蘇州 Sou jau: One of eastern China's great cultural cities, known for flowers, gardens (蘇州園林 'sou jau yuen lam'), poetry, and clear-skinned women. It is located an the Grand Canal (大運河 'daai wan ho'), which was built over several centuries, starting during the Spring And Autumn Period (春秋時代 771 BCE to 476 BCE), and continuing on through Sui (隋 581-618) and subsequent dynasties.
It was restored during Ming (大明 1368–1644) and Ch'ing (大清 1644–1912).
杭州 Hong jau: One of Chinese famous cities of culture, about which much poetry has been written, and where many famous intellectuals spent formative years. It is said that above us there is heaven, while here on earth there are Hangchow and Soochow (上有天堂下有蘇杭 'seung yau tin tong, haa yau sou hong').
寧波 Ning pou: an important commercial city on the coast. 金華 Kam waa: well-known for superior hams. 紹興 Siu hing: where the best yellow wine comes from.
Note: pronunciations in Cantonese, because that is the most useful.]
Among the Wu dialects there is considerable differentiation, with often a very low degree of mutual intelligibility. The elegant Soochow dialect has the greatest status, with Shanghainese (which largely derives from it) being given far less respect.
Wenchowese is the most peculiar.
"Fear not heaven, fear not earth; just fear Wenchow people speaking the Wenchow language!"
As Wu languages go, its divergence from the norm is due to isolation and the proximity of North-Eastern Min (閩東語), from which it has borrowed much. The situation is analogous to English, a Germanic language with a huge amount of Mediaeval French and Latin. That then is compounded by unique phonology and tones. With, of course, the accepted written language utilizing a vocabulary seldom encountered in speech.
No, this blogger does not speak Wenzhouhua. The local restaurant in the town where I grew up was owned by folks from Zhejiang (浙江 'jit gong'), but the kitchen staff were Cantonese, and the headwaiter came from Shanghai. Although everyone had spent time in Hongkong.
So I've heard something similar (Wenchow is located in Zhejiang), both from the proprietors and their families, and the headwaiter.
But I never learned it.
A pity, because one of the young ladies was extraordinarily nice.
It's something I've always regretted.
門不當，戶不對。
["Mun pat dong, wu pat deui."]
She entered highschool when I was already finishing my fourth year.
It would have been unsuitable, even by Dutch standards.
There was just too great a differential there.
Despite two languages in common.
Even so, she was very nice.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
YOU MAY SCREAM
Due to scheduling conflicts, the weekly visit to the place of howling madness with an old friend did not take place at the customary time. Which is probably just as well, given that a few years ago the owner installed a karaoke machine, and now hordes of young white people drop in to scream, shout, get drunk, and sing badly.
Under other circumstances this blogger approves of young people. Especially if they wish to misbehave. I've done that too.
Might like to do it again.
The combination of enormous numbers of them at top volume, with alcohol and crappy lyrics, is not conducive.
I prefer my young people somewhat quieter and more restrained.
No idea where those might be found.
At home in bed?
The best young people, assuming that they have already hit adulthood, do not go to Karaoke places, and very rarely drink. They know how to behave in public. The most extrovert that they can be is when they bite into a flaky charsiu turnover, and exclaim "my goodness, this is so delicious".
I would like to introduce them to that, but I fear them.
Especially here in San Francisco.
People have fangs.
Trust me; a hot cup of Hongkong style milk-tea, and a flaky charsiu turnover, are much much better than screaming into a microphone. Especially if you can appreciate the good things in life.
And calm rational company.
I know where to get charsiu turnovers and milk-tea.
And I am also a nice calm man.
Mature, even.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Under other circumstances this blogger approves of young people. Especially if they wish to misbehave. I've done that too.
Might like to do it again.
The combination of enormous numbers of them at top volume, with alcohol and crappy lyrics, is not conducive.
I prefer my young people somewhat quieter and more restrained.
No idea where those might be found.
At home in bed?
The best young people, assuming that they have already hit adulthood, do not go to Karaoke places, and very rarely drink. They know how to behave in public. The most extrovert that they can be is when they bite into a flaky charsiu turnover, and exclaim "my goodness, this is so delicious".
I would like to introduce them to that, but I fear them.
Especially here in San Francisco.
People have fangs.
Trust me; a hot cup of Hongkong style milk-tea, and a flaky charsiu turnover, are much much better than screaming into a microphone. Especially if you can appreciate the good things in life.
And calm rational company.
I know where to get charsiu turnovers and milk-tea.
And I am also a nice calm man.
Mature, even.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
KOREAN YAM —— 淮山葯
Years ago my apartment mate returned from the farmers market with something that could only be described as a "big ass yam".
Or 'big donkey yam', for the Bowdlerized version.
She was positively gloating about it.
It was indeed extraordinary.
A few minutes later the phone rang, with a salesperson in a trailer park out in Inbredistan trying to get me to switch plans back to ATT, so rather than explaining that they were barking mad, ATT sucked eggs, and Hades would sooner freeze entirely over, I instead gave vent to my worshipful admiration for the 'big ass yam'. Or big donkey yam. I waxed poetic.
It was a remarkably short phone conversation.
They might not have yams in Inbredistan.
Today I saw its cousin. And I had no clue what it was.
It is sold in Chinatown
.
淮山 WAAI SAAN
[Flumen or fontenym, plus 'mountain'.]
Okay, it's a root. Tuberous. And I feel quite tickled that I can read the Chinese name. That's a big step in the right direction.
But what the heck is it?
Several old ladies assured me that it was good for the kidneys (腎 'san'). As well as the spleen (脾 'pei'). And also the liver (肝 'gon'). Particularly when cooked with such things as tripe (百葉 'paak yip'), corn (粟米 'suk mai'), and carrots (紅蘿蔔 'hong lo bok'). Long simmering is best. Other things it can be cooked with include 枸杞子 ('gau gei ji': Lycium chinense), black wood ears (黑木耳 'hak muk yi'), and Chinese red dates (红枣 'hong jou').
It is very good!
Thank you, auntie.
I remain quite clueless.
淮山红枣糖水 SWEET WAAI SAAN ROOT AND RED DATE SOUP
[Waai saan hong jou tong sui]
淮山5兩 (five taels of Waaisaan).
红枣1兩 (one tael of red dates).
白糖适量 (a suitable amount of sugar).
淮山去皮，切片 (peel and chop the Waaisaan).
红枣洗净，切片 (rinse and chop the dates).
淮山同红枣放入水中 (dump both into water).
煮到淮山變軟 (cook until the Waaisaan softens).
加數量糖 (add a suitable quantity of sugar).
係噉 (that is all).
["Waai saan hong jou tong sui: Waai saan ng leung. Hong jou yat leung. Paak tong sik leung. Waai saan heui pei, chit pin. Hong jou sai jeng, chit pin. Waai saan tong hong jou fong yap sui jung. Jiu dou waai saan pin yuen. Gaa sou leung tong. Hai gam."]
Simple, tasty, and undoubtedly very healthful.
Good for yin energy (陰氣 'yam hei').
Your kidneys and spleen.
And the liver.
At this point I still didn't know what this most beneficial vegetable was. The vegetable seller didn't know the English name either, but assured me that it was "waai saan".
I should've asked her to write down how to cook it with meat, carrots, and corn too. Though I would've substituted parsnips, because I'm not too hep on carrots.
Turns out it's Dioscorea opposita - the Korean yam.
淮山葯 waai saan yeuk.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Or 'big donkey yam', for the Bowdlerized version.
She was positively gloating about it.
It was indeed extraordinary.
A few minutes later the phone rang, with a salesperson in a trailer park out in Inbredistan trying to get me to switch plans back to ATT, so rather than explaining that they were barking mad, ATT sucked eggs, and Hades would sooner freeze entirely over, I instead gave vent to my worshipful admiration for the 'big ass yam'. Or big donkey yam. I waxed poetic.
It was a remarkably short phone conversation.
They might not have yams in Inbredistan.
Today I saw its cousin. And I had no clue what it was.
It is sold in Chinatown
.
淮山 WAAI SAAN
[Flumen or fontenym, plus 'mountain'.]
Okay, it's a root. Tuberous. And I feel quite tickled that I can read the Chinese name. That's a big step in the right direction.
But what the heck is it?
Several old ladies assured me that it was good for the kidneys (腎 'san'). As well as the spleen (脾 'pei'). And also the liver (肝 'gon'). Particularly when cooked with such things as tripe (百葉 'paak yip'), corn (粟米 'suk mai'), and carrots (紅蘿蔔 'hong lo bok'). Long simmering is best. Other things it can be cooked with include 枸杞子 ('gau gei ji': Lycium chinense), black wood ears (黑木耳 'hak muk yi'), and Chinese red dates (红枣 'hong jou').
It is very good!
Thank you, auntie.
I remain quite clueless.
淮山红枣糖水 SWEET WAAI SAAN ROOT AND RED DATE SOUP
[Waai saan hong jou tong sui]
淮山5兩 (five taels of Waaisaan).
红枣1兩 (one tael of red dates).
白糖适量 (a suitable amount of sugar).
淮山去皮，切片 (peel and chop the Waaisaan).
红枣洗净，切片 (rinse and chop the dates).
淮山同红枣放入水中 (dump both into water).
煮到淮山變軟 (cook until the Waaisaan softens).
加數量糖 (add a suitable quantity of sugar).
係噉 (that is all).
["Waai saan hong jou tong sui: Waai saan ng leung. Hong jou yat leung. Paak tong sik leung. Waai saan heui pei, chit pin. Hong jou sai jeng, chit pin. Waai saan tong hong jou fong yap sui jung. Jiu dou waai saan pin yuen. Gaa sou leung tong. Hai gam."]
Simple, tasty, and undoubtedly very healthful.
Good for yin energy (陰氣 'yam hei').
Your kidneys and spleen.
And the liver.
At this point I still didn't know what this most beneficial vegetable was. The vegetable seller didn't know the English name either, but assured me that it was "waai saan".
I should've asked her to write down how to cook it with meat, carrots, and corn too. Though I would've substituted parsnips, because I'm not too hep on carrots.
Turns out it's Dioscorea opposita - the Korean yam.
淮山葯 waai saan yeuk.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE WARM BUS RIDE
The bus stopped at Kearney and old people got on. One gentleman was so arthritic that he really should have used the front, where there is lift capability -- the bus will lower itself, and a little hydraulic platform would be able to make the ascent so much less problematic -- but he got on at the rear entrance, painfully attempting to hoist himself up the stairs. He refused help from passengers, but his wife pushed him up and in. It was a well-practiced manoeuvre; she had obviously done it many times before.
Before creaking over to a seat which a young person vacated for him, he swiped his transit card against the beeper. Whatever else, one must observe proper procedures. Two blocks later the couple got off.
I suspect that they meant to catch the Stockton bus.
Well, they're alive and kicking. And filled with determination neither grim nor excessively upbeat. Very matter of fact about the logistical problems that accompany old age.
Still.
In those two blocks, the bus went from jam-packed to sardine can.
There had been many elderly folks at Kearney Street.
Very few younger people got the memo.
Alleviating the tension that masses crammed together may feel, one woman was talking on her cell-phone. Normally I disapprove of cell-phone use on the bus, as it seems such a deliberate act of selfish personal imperialism.
"This is my space, screw you and both of your ears and even your very presence, I am an important and creative individual, and I will now assert my splendidiferous persontude by yacking loudly about nothing at all.
For the next ten blocks!"
"You gotta return to the warm embrace of Lesbian motherhood!"
Okay. Lady, you've got my complete attention. I love listening in on transit conversations, and I have NO intention of disturbing you while you talk about Lesbian maternal temperature.
This blogger, while not a Lesbian himself, has nothing but kind words for Lesbian embraces.
Which I do not want to actually see, please understand, unless they are fully clothed. Much like any other embracing. Embraces are a charming spectacle if the proprieties are maintained.
And I'm not a mother either. So that's TWO points of difference.
But believe me, I am all about warmth.
Especially in this weather.
Let us ALL embrace.
Mmm, toasty.
Turns out a friend is dallying temporarily with one of THOSE people. You know, a man. Male. Of masculine persuasion. It may be Christmas-related. Have to present a non-disturbing face to the folks during the holiday.
A pretense at standard heterosexual complacency is far more festive than casting dykeness into the family soup.
But just wait till afterwards. When it's all over.
You WILL return to the warm embrace.
Of the Lesbian earth-mother.
You can't help it.
Baby.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Before creaking over to a seat which a young person vacated for him, he swiped his transit card against the beeper. Whatever else, one must observe proper procedures. Two blocks later the couple got off.
I suspect that they meant to catch the Stockton bus.
Well, they're alive and kicking. And filled with determination neither grim nor excessively upbeat. Very matter of fact about the logistical problems that accompany old age.
Still.
In those two blocks, the bus went from jam-packed to sardine can.
There had been many elderly folks at Kearney Street.
Very few younger people got the memo.
Alleviating the tension that masses crammed together may feel, one woman was talking on her cell-phone. Normally I disapprove of cell-phone use on the bus, as it seems such a deliberate act of selfish personal imperialism.
"This is my space, screw you and both of your ears and even your very presence, I am an important and creative individual, and I will now assert my splendidiferous persontude by yacking loudly about nothing at all.
For the next ten blocks!"
"You gotta return to the warm embrace of Lesbian motherhood!"
Okay. Lady, you've got my complete attention. I love listening in on transit conversations, and I have NO intention of disturbing you while you talk about Lesbian maternal temperature.
This blogger, while not a Lesbian himself, has nothing but kind words for Lesbian embraces.
Which I do not want to actually see, please understand, unless they are fully clothed. Much like any other embracing. Embraces are a charming spectacle if the proprieties are maintained.
And I'm not a mother either. So that's TWO points of difference.
But believe me, I am all about warmth.
Especially in this weather.
Let us ALL embrace.
Mmm, toasty.
Turns out a friend is dallying temporarily with one of THOSE people. You know, a man. Male. Of masculine persuasion. It may be Christmas-related. Have to present a non-disturbing face to the folks during the holiday.
A pretense at standard heterosexual complacency is far more festive than casting dykeness into the family soup.
But just wait till afterwards. When it's all over.
You WILL return to the warm embrace.
Of the Lesbian earth-mother.
You can't help it.
Baby.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, December 09, 2013
IT IS ALIVE. BUT IS IT HUMAN?
Yesterday a local sports team did something fantastic. No, I did not watch the game, and have no actual idea what it was, or even how stupendous. The knowledge that it was mega-fantastic earthshattering super wonderful and just about the biggest thing since cheesedoodles was imparted by the noise in the nursery. That being a collection of cigar smokers in the lounge at The Last Man Standing.
Judging by their behaviour, watching sports is very much like drunken frat-boy sex; there's an awful lot of screaming and cussing.
I am not a sports-fan. Perhaps it's a character-flaw.
Nor do I feel any urge to support my team.
Whose names I do not know.
Unlike many people, I get most of my stimulation from caffeine.
So asking why I was anywhere near the cigar-smokers is a valid question; why the devil would I subject myself to that?
Well, I did not know that so important a game was scheduled.
In all honesty, I thought that right around this time nothing, absolutely nothing, would come between America and the popular must-have retailers. So I envisioned a nice quiet afternoon with the buffing wheels, polishing compounds, various waxes, poke-poke tools, and fluids, and an array of briar coming alive again in my hands.
Charatan, Comoy, Dunhill, Savinelli, and a few altogether interesting brands that I had seldom or never seen before. It was mostly Savinelli, but they were very nice pieces. Not filthy inside, slightly perfumed by Dunhill London Mixture, and the only thing that really required a focused neurosis was the tar embedded in the rims of the sandblasts.
Often when I fiddle with pipes I can imagine the type of rodent, raccoon, badger, or stoat-like creature that might love the object between my fingers.
This selection was part of a larger batch that had recently come in, all from the same owner. He liked English mixtures, and his tastes were twixt classic collegiate and sporty modern. But very balanced.
Possibly a very charming salamander or lizard of a man, with a tendency to wear overly colourful sweaters. Bright orb-eyes, and a subtle wit. A little pink flickety tongue snagging flies.
He may have liked curried grubs and beetles.
Followed by a spot of sourmash.
Once in a while, a cheroot.
A zesty Nicaraguan.
Or a Fuente.
Maduro.
Sometimes I wonder what my own pipe collection says about me. Could someone tell from my shape-preferences and prize-examples that I spent time in Europe and on planet Berkeley, before settling into digs in San Francisco? Do the pipes betray that I like noodles with grilled pork? Very fond of bittermelon? Vietnamese drip coffee, Hongkong-style milk-tea?
I think it's a stable and classic selection of briar, with a few notes of wildness. Only one or two queer lapses of judgment, which represent a chipper and upbeat streak of adventurism.
All in all, not an unlikable goobus.
Albeit rather offish.
Some pipes suggest a life in the sunlight, with the brightness of a California Spring or Summer coming in through the windows in mid-morning. Soft breezes, and the green of wooded areas, with alternating blots of brilliance and shadow. Late afternoons. Others hint at metal instruments and wooden surfaces, the distant echoes of machines, though not too loud for dreams.
Concrete, asphalt, iron bars. Abandoned tracks, loading docks.
A host of weasels, with a preference for VaPer flake.
A bright-eyed meerkat smoking a Zulu.
An otter, with a Rhodesian.
Rat and a Dublin.
Tangy leaf.
I'm certain that none of my pieces in any way says anything what so ever about football, or yelling at a television screen for several hours while chomping stogies and bloviating.
Because I can't imagine ever doing that myself.
I do not watch sports.
At all.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Judging by their behaviour, watching sports is very much like drunken frat-boy sex; there's an awful lot of screaming and cussing.
I am not a sports-fan. Perhaps it's a character-flaw.
Nor do I feel any urge to support my team.
Whose names I do not know.
Unlike many people, I get most of my stimulation from caffeine.
So asking why I was anywhere near the cigar-smokers is a valid question; why the devil would I subject myself to that?
Well, I did not know that so important a game was scheduled.
In all honesty, I thought that right around this time nothing, absolutely nothing, would come between America and the popular must-have retailers. So I envisioned a nice quiet afternoon with the buffing wheels, polishing compounds, various waxes, poke-poke tools, and fluids, and an array of briar coming alive again in my hands.
Charatan, Comoy, Dunhill, Savinelli, and a few altogether interesting brands that I had seldom or never seen before. It was mostly Savinelli, but they were very nice pieces. Not filthy inside, slightly perfumed by Dunhill London Mixture, and the only thing that really required a focused neurosis was the tar embedded in the rims of the sandblasts.
Often when I fiddle with pipes I can imagine the type of rodent, raccoon, badger, or stoat-like creature that might love the object between my fingers.
This selection was part of a larger batch that had recently come in, all from the same owner. He liked English mixtures, and his tastes were twixt classic collegiate and sporty modern. But very balanced.
Possibly a very charming salamander or lizard of a man, with a tendency to wear overly colourful sweaters. Bright orb-eyes, and a subtle wit. A little pink flickety tongue snagging flies.
He may have liked curried grubs and beetles.
Followed by a spot of sourmash.
Once in a while, a cheroot.
A zesty Nicaraguan.
Or a Fuente.
Maduro.
Sometimes I wonder what my own pipe collection says about me. Could someone tell from my shape-preferences and prize-examples that I spent time in Europe and on planet Berkeley, before settling into digs in San Francisco? Do the pipes betray that I like noodles with grilled pork? Very fond of bittermelon? Vietnamese drip coffee, Hongkong-style milk-tea?
I think it's a stable and classic selection of briar, with a few notes of wildness. Only one or two queer lapses of judgment, which represent a chipper and upbeat streak of adventurism.
All in all, not an unlikable goobus.
Albeit rather offish.
Some pipes suggest a life in the sunlight, with the brightness of a California Spring or Summer coming in through the windows in mid-morning. Soft breezes, and the green of wooded areas, with alternating blots of brilliance and shadow. Late afternoons. Others hint at metal instruments and wooden surfaces, the distant echoes of machines, though not too loud for dreams.
Concrete, asphalt, iron bars. Abandoned tracks, loading docks.
A host of weasels, with a preference for VaPer flake.
A bright-eyed meerkat smoking a Zulu.
An otter, with a Rhodesian.
Rat and a Dublin.
Tangy leaf.
I'm certain that none of my pieces in any way says anything what so ever about football, or yelling at a television screen for several hours while chomping stogies and bloviating.
Because I can't imagine ever doing that myself.
I do not watch sports.
At all.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, December 08, 2013
CONVERSATIONS WITH SALESREPS
An oldy but goody from 2009. Now presented in bullet list format, so that you can print it out and tack it up where it's visible. Like just above your phone, or to the right of your computer.
Suggestions & improvements welcomed.
I am here to help.
CONVERSATIONS WITH SALESREPS
When speaking to salesreps, bear in mind that they are simple folks and data confuses them. They cannot handle more than one thought at a time.
SO: If you need to discuss TWO issues (such as: 1. a past-due invoice; and 2. a deduction taken on a previous payment), please do the following:
Other things to keep in mind:
And please try to be as understanding as you possibly can.
Let them know that, they will appreciate it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Suggestions & improvements welcomed.
I am here to help.
CONVERSATIONS WITH SALESREPS
When speaking to salesreps, bear in mind that they are simple folks and data confuses them. They cannot handle more than one thought at a time.
SO: If you need to discuss TWO issues (such as: 1. a past-due invoice; and 2. a deduction taken on a previous payment), please do the following:
- Have TWO phone conversations, at least two weeks apart - one for each issue. This will keep them from jumbling the two together.
- Speak slowly, use simple words. They will understand better, and be able to read their own notes.
- Ask them to repeat back to you what you just told them. This is to ensure that the words, if not the meaning, have penetrated.
- Call them back a day later, to check if they need help, reminders, or further explanation.
- Reward them with positive and comforting interjections, like "good!", "marvelous", "you're SO smart", "fabulous!".
- Immediately make notes in the file. Whatever you said will change in many ways over time. Do not expect them to remember the details - they're too busy for that.
Other things to keep in mind:
- Repetition – they may not have heard you the first time. Repetition – they may not have heard you the first time. Repetition – they may not have heard you the first time. Repetition – they may not have heard you the first time. Repetition – they may not have heard you the first time. Repetition – they may not have heard you the first time.
- Always say 'hello'.
- Always say 'thank you'.
- Always say 'goodbye' – it could be the only way to END the conversation.
And please try to be as understanding as you possibly can.
Let them know that, they will appreciate it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PORK RIBS FROM CHICKEN
That wasn't a good idea. The potato chips were okay. The healthful yoghurt drink was fine. The delicious barbecued chicken rib sandwich may have been a mistake. Especially after adding ketchup, mustard, hotsauce, and capers. And sliced peppers. This batch of chilies was particularly vicious.
So even the ameliorating effect of marmalade (sweet, citrusy, beneficial to the stomach lining) was wasted. The effect I was aiming for was "tangy barbecue sauce".
I may have misfired. The aim was off.
The concept was bad from the git-go.
Italian sausage grilled with Cayenne?
I should know better than to attempt high cuisine after ten o'clock. Nobody has culinary judgement that late. It just ain't in the cards.
Yes, the sauce came out pleasantly glazy. Without even tasting it, I decided it would be better ("improved") if some hot lime pickle (nimbu achar) was added. A man needs zest in his life.
I have profound regrets.
Woke up with "angst".
Running on empty.
Learning curve.
Vikings.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
So even the ameliorating effect of marmalade (sweet, citrusy, beneficial to the stomach lining) was wasted. The effect I was aiming for was "tangy barbecue sauce".
I may have misfired. The aim was off.
The concept was bad from the git-go.
Italian sausage grilled with Cayenne?
I should know better than to attempt high cuisine after ten o'clock. Nobody has culinary judgement that late. It just ain't in the cards.
Yes, the sauce came out pleasantly glazy. Without even tasting it, I decided it would be better ("improved") if some hot lime pickle (nimbu achar) was added. A man needs zest in his life.
I have profound regrets.
Woke up with "angst".
Running on empty.
Learning curve.
Vikings.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, December 07, 2013
WILL INVENT STUFF FOR BEER
Two days ago we had a reunion. The company no longer exists, since November of last year, but it had survived the sharks for nearly two decades. And, ignoring the grating surreality of the last two years, it was a good place to work.
The reunion was, naturally, at a bar. Creative types gravitate towards alcohol much the same way that crackheads are magnetically attracted to lost suburbanites.
There's just something about intelligent people which is infinitely alluring. Yes, some of them are female...... but don't worry, I was looking at their eyes. Same goes for the males among us.
We had actually done some pretty darn decent work while employed at that company. Won a few awards, made heads spin, fascinated crowds. But it became a leaner, more competitive market as time went on. And, truth be told, the retailers were falling like flies. The Big Box shops in mall-America have a lot to answer for.
None of the beefy fratboys from Sales or Marketing showed up, which is just as well. We would've eaten them.
OBLIGATORY ATTENDANCE
Every month we had a company meeting during which an overview of corporate health and progress would be given, followed by significant news, after which each department would in three minutes (!) explain either what they had been up to in the last four weeks or what they had achieved.
The most memorable mass meeting was the one in which Shank Dog ("creative") blew the Sales and Marketing dudes out of the water. First Sales blathered on for over ten minutes that they had done momentous things which were totally staggering, saved the world, cured cancer, won peace prizes, and increased prosperity, happiness, and emotional health all round they were just phenomenal and expected applause.
Enthused applause was duly rendered.
Then Marketing told us for fifteen minutes in glowing terms about their mission to Mars, Pluto, the lost continent of Mu, Walmart and Kmart. They had fought the good fight, trounced dragons and giants, performed feats of valour, and cured the sick, made the crippled see again, and were by themselves quite the biggest thing since topsy.
World leaders agreed that they were better than Sales.
Why crapazoola they were just wonderful.
Yes you may clap now.
So we clapped. Yay, team. Yay.
Then Shank Dog stood up, and succinctly explained what Product Development had done during that month.
"We hired a bus, loaded it up with beer, and drove to the Sierras. Blotto for an entire week. Bought more beer. Great time. We're expensing it as 'brainstorming'. Oh, and we also saved the world, just like those other two departments."
Wow. Total silence. Sales and Marketing didn't know what to say.
Clearly Product Development was cooler than them.
Suffice to say that most meetings after that were much shorter, more productive, and certainly more realistic.
I still think we should have produced 'The Little Miss Mayhem Junior Chainsaw', which I envisioned as coming in its own personalizable femmy pink sleeve, with Unicorn and Hello Kitty decals optional and according to the choice of the pig-tailed preteen end-user ("the ideal market segment"), as well as addictive biofeedback devices that would duplicate the pleasurable effects of four hours at the gym without the sweat, grunting, and wasted time -- just strap yourself in, set dials to max, and you'll be in heaven till you have to go to work again -- but what came out of the drunken brainstorming sessions of the Product Development Department was pretty damned cool too.
Nineteen years of corporate goofitude.
That's very good.
COCKY AND INTELLIGENT
On the way home, I heard crows. There are a few small colonies of them in the Nob Hill area. They're raucous and cheerful.
The last three months that the company existed, we were in Hayward. Out in the reclaimed swamplands made industrial, with wide roads, parking lots, and loading docks. Landscaping, trees, warehouses.
Where crows swagger in the weeds along the railroad tracks.
Self-assured, smarter than most other fowl.
More brains than Marketing.
Likely also Sales.
Definitely.
Crows.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The reunion was, naturally, at a bar. Creative types gravitate towards alcohol much the same way that crackheads are magnetically attracted to lost suburbanites.
There's just something about intelligent people which is infinitely alluring. Yes, some of them are female...... but don't worry, I was looking at their eyes. Same goes for the males among us.
We had actually done some pretty darn decent work while employed at that company. Won a few awards, made heads spin, fascinated crowds. But it became a leaner, more competitive market as time went on. And, truth be told, the retailers were falling like flies. The Big Box shops in mall-America have a lot to answer for.
None of the beefy fratboys from Sales or Marketing showed up, which is just as well. We would've eaten them.
OBLIGATORY ATTENDANCE
Every month we had a company meeting during which an overview of corporate health and progress would be given, followed by significant news, after which each department would in three minutes (!) explain either what they had been up to in the last four weeks or what they had achieved.
The most memorable mass meeting was the one in which Shank Dog ("creative") blew the Sales and Marketing dudes out of the water. First Sales blathered on for over ten minutes that they had done momentous things which were totally staggering, saved the world, cured cancer, won peace prizes, and increased prosperity, happiness, and emotional health all round they were just phenomenal and expected applause.
Enthused applause was duly rendered.
Then Marketing told us for fifteen minutes in glowing terms about their mission to Mars, Pluto, the lost continent of Mu, Walmart and Kmart. They had fought the good fight, trounced dragons and giants, performed feats of valour, and cured the sick, made the crippled see again, and were by themselves quite the biggest thing since topsy.
World leaders agreed that they were better than Sales.
Why crapazoola they were just wonderful.
Yes you may clap now.
So we clapped. Yay, team. Yay.
Then Shank Dog stood up, and succinctly explained what Product Development had done during that month.
"We hired a bus, loaded it up with beer, and drove to the Sierras. Blotto for an entire week. Bought more beer. Great time. We're expensing it as 'brainstorming'. Oh, and we also saved the world, just like those other two departments."
Wow. Total silence. Sales and Marketing didn't know what to say.
Clearly Product Development was cooler than them.
Suffice to say that most meetings after that were much shorter, more productive, and certainly more realistic.
I still think we should have produced 'The Little Miss Mayhem Junior Chainsaw', which I envisioned as coming in its own personalizable femmy pink sleeve, with Unicorn and Hello Kitty decals optional and according to the choice of the pig-tailed preteen end-user ("the ideal market segment"), as well as addictive biofeedback devices that would duplicate the pleasurable effects of four hours at the gym without the sweat, grunting, and wasted time -- just strap yourself in, set dials to max, and you'll be in heaven till you have to go to work again -- but what came out of the drunken brainstorming sessions of the Product Development Department was pretty damned cool too.
Nineteen years of corporate goofitude.
That's very good.
COCKY AND INTELLIGENT
On the way home, I heard crows. There are a few small colonies of them in the Nob Hill area. They're raucous and cheerful.
The last three months that the company existed, we were in Hayward. Out in the reclaimed swamplands made industrial, with wide roads, parking lots, and loading docks. Landscaping, trees, warehouses.
Where crows swagger in the weeds along the railroad tracks.
Self-assured, smarter than most other fowl.
More brains than Marketing.
Likely also Sales.
Definitely.
Crows.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, December 06, 2013
WHERE IS HUIZHOU? AND IS IT FABULOUS?
There are at least three major languages spoken in Huizhou by the locals, but you don't really need to know a word of any of them. Many residents will be able to hack some English, and they're so used to visitors being completely unintelligible that it doesn't faze them in any case. The climate is subtropical, and there are a number of interesting sights, including ancient pagodas and fabulous scenery. Daya Bay (大亞灣) has dozens of islands and reefs, and is a must for people of an aquatic bent.
[Languages: Cantonese (廣州話 gwongjau waa, 粵語 yuet yü), Hakka (客家話 hakka waa, 梅縣 moi yuen), and Mandarin (普通話 poutong waa, 官話 gun waa,
北方話 pak fong waa, 國語 gwok yü).]
In addition, Huizhou is a thriving city of industry and commerce, as well as a garrison town, home to the 42nd. army of the Peoples Republic of China (中國人民解放軍第42集團軍 "jung gwok yan man gaai fong kwan dai sei sap yi jaap tuen kwan").
The last item indicates how important the place is.
[中國 jung gwok: central country; China. 人民 yan man: people. 人 yan: person, human. 民 man: citizenry, populace. 解放軍 gaai fong kwan: liberation army.
解放 gaai fong: liberation. 解 gaai: loosen, untie; explain, elucidate. 放 fong: put something somewhere, release, set free; liberate. 第 dai: number, degree, sequence.
42: forty two; 四十二("sei sap yi"). 集團軍 jaap tuen kwan: army group, corps or division. 集 jaap: assemblage, collection. 團 tuen: ball, mass, lump.
軍 kwan: army; the military.]
The local cuisine is of Cantonese type, but diverse other attempts at cooking can also be found there, such as Szechuan, Shanghai, and Pizza.
Stick with Cantonese food and you won't go wrong.
Freshness, grande saveur, and zest.
It's fabulous.
惠州 WAI JAU
The city is northeast of Shenzhen (深圳) and Hongkong (香港), in the Pearl River Delta region (珠江三角洲) in Canton Province (廣東). Yes, there are people in San Francisco who speak the local dialect, but that isn't why I'm mentioning the place.
I'm mentioning it because of their traffic police.
Of whom I greatly approve.
惠州交警 —— 交通安全舞
[Wai jau gaau ging -- gaau tong on chuen mou]
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8CymAEjZmUY#t=116.]
Well now. Jumping, dude. Rock out.
The nominal reason for the video is that 1-2-2 ("yat yi yi") is the Chinese traffic emergency phone-number, and therefore, more or less, December 2nd. is now 'Traffic Police Day'.
The real reason is probably "because we can". Yessiree, Huizhou Traffic Police totally rule.
I for one am mighty impressed; I cannot imagine our traffic cops doing something so utterly cool, ever. Heck, most of the C.H.P. can't get their creaky big buts off the saddle without ripping something.
"TRAFFIC SAFETY DANCE"
The background in the video makes me want to visit Huizhou. It's sunny there. And subtropical. There are trees, and broad boulevards.
It looks like a beautiful spacious modern city.
Clean, bright, and well-maintained.
No garbage on the streets.
Californian.
Altogether quite unlike San Francisco. Where I presently live.
The only thing we have in common with Huizhou is that our local cuisine is also of Cantonese type. Which is fabulous.
NOTE
I was made aware of this video, which shows that the Huizhou Traffic Police are a wonderful force to be reckoned with, by Beijing Cream, which regularly features some boffo stuff.
Fabulous.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[Languages: Cantonese (廣州話 gwongjau waa, 粵語 yuet yü), Hakka (客家話 hakka waa, 梅縣 moi yuen), and Mandarin (普通話 poutong waa, 官話 gun waa,
北方話 pak fong waa, 國語 gwok yü).]
In addition, Huizhou is a thriving city of industry and commerce, as well as a garrison town, home to the 42nd. army of the Peoples Republic of China (中國人民解放軍第42集團軍 "jung gwok yan man gaai fong kwan dai sei sap yi jaap tuen kwan").
The last item indicates how important the place is.
[中國 jung gwok: central country; China. 人民 yan man: people. 人 yan: person, human. 民 man: citizenry, populace. 解放軍 gaai fong kwan: liberation army.
解放 gaai fong: liberation. 解 gaai: loosen, untie; explain, elucidate. 放 fong: put something somewhere, release, set free; liberate. 第 dai: number, degree, sequence.
42: forty two; 四十二("sei sap yi"). 集團軍 jaap tuen kwan: army group, corps or division. 集 jaap: assemblage, collection. 團 tuen: ball, mass, lump.
軍 kwan: army; the military.]
The local cuisine is of Cantonese type, but diverse other attempts at cooking can also be found there, such as Szechuan, Shanghai, and Pizza.
Stick with Cantonese food and you won't go wrong.
Freshness, grande saveur, and zest.
It's fabulous.
惠州 WAI JAU
The city is northeast of Shenzhen (深圳) and Hongkong (香港), in the Pearl River Delta region (珠江三角洲) in Canton Province (廣東). Yes, there are people in San Francisco who speak the local dialect, but that isn't why I'm mentioning the place.
I'm mentioning it because of their traffic police.
Of whom I greatly approve.
惠州交警 —— 交通安全舞
[Wai jau gaau ging -- gaau tong on chuen mou]
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8CymAEjZmUY#t=116.]
Well now. Jumping, dude. Rock out.
The nominal reason for the video is that 1-2-2 ("yat yi yi") is the Chinese traffic emergency phone-number, and therefore, more or less, December 2nd. is now 'Traffic Police Day'.
The real reason is probably "because we can". Yessiree, Huizhou Traffic Police totally rule.
I for one am mighty impressed; I cannot imagine our traffic cops doing something so utterly cool, ever. Heck, most of the C.H.P. can't get their creaky big buts off the saddle without ripping something.
"TRAFFIC SAFETY DANCE"
The background in the video makes me want to visit Huizhou. It's sunny there. And subtropical. There are trees, and broad boulevards.
It looks like a beautiful spacious modern city.
Clean, bright, and well-maintained.
No garbage on the streets.
Californian.
Altogether quite unlike San Francisco. Where I presently live.
The only thing we have in common with Huizhou is that our local cuisine is also of Cantonese type. Which is fabulous.
NOTE
I was made aware of this video, which shows that the Huizhou Traffic Police are a wonderful force to be reckoned with, by Beijing Cream, which regularly features some boffo stuff.
Fabulous.
==========================================================================
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,...
