Manfully I resisted reading about this until fairly late in the day. Instead of jumping on it first thing, I smoked several pipes, had meals, drank a few caffeinated beverages, walked around town, hiccoughed, and pondered the mysteries of the universe, before finally falling on an article entitled "'Female Viagra': Libido pill Addyi approved by FDA" like a starving man on a bottle of Irish whiskey...
"The US Food and Drug Administration has approved a libido-enhancing drug for women ... "
Assuredly, this is a giant step forward for gender equality. Next thing you know there will be female priests. And possibly, altar girls.
Ladies who previously were utterly bored by sex will now be able to be less bored, without the help of marijuana and alcohol.
LESS BORED EQUALS A FAINT WHOOPIE
The drug in question works on the brain rather than on the circulation in the venereal region. Given that women consist of about fifteen or twenty highly unpredictable erogenous zones, some of which may or may not be out of order at any given time, that approach was probably best.
Quote:
" ... trials had shown an increase "in the number of satisfying sexual events", although experts suggest the test results were modest."
End quote.
Quote:
"Versions of the pill have been submitted for approval in the past but never passed; it was rejected by the FDA twice for lack of effectiveness and side effects like nausea, dizziness and fainting."
End quote.
Yes, I know I shouldn't laugh. But just like Viagra, it will be misused, and must therefore be the butt of jokes.
The other night a friend and I were walking down the street when an entrepreneurial gentleman offered us Viagra pills for five bucks. What is it about two fairly decent looking youngish middle-aged fellows that suggests Viagra (or Cialis) might be a desideratum?
We're not frat-boys, we do not screw in the street.
To the best of my knowledge neither of us screws.
An increase in the "number of satisfying sexual events", besides sounding like something a South Indian Ashram would encourage, as well as a United Nations program, is indeed something devoutly to be wished.
But count me out. I am not interested in the slightest. No girlfriend, ergo no sexual events in several years, satisfying or otherwise.
In all likelihood, I am precisely like previous versions of the drug.
And may cause nausea, dizziness, and fainting.
You know, there's a condom in one of my jacket pockets. And in the same way that lighting up a cigarette immediately gets the waitress to come over and take your order, or the bus to turn the corner and come to a screeching stop right where you had been waiting, or nowadays an angry Berkeleyite earth-mother to pop out of nowhere screaming about how you're ruining the planet, giving her heartburn, asthma, and a rash, plus killing babies, a condom in the pocket is potent magic; it absolutely guarantees that I will NEVER be left wishing I had a condom.
The dark aura it emits chases away all happy drunken poon.
As well as brilliant sexy brainiacs with glasses.
Or cute little PHD candidates.
Even Vegans.
A condom in the pocket is a talisman that wards off sex.
A female version of Viagra will guarantee desperation.
When there's no connection, no "events" will occur.
Should've stuck with the nausea and dizziness, ladies. Those are more easily achieved. A few cocktails should do it, and there are far fewer potential regrets.
I would offer you a smoke, but you'd probably kill me.
And turn my skin into a neat-o handbag.
You know, I cannot get excited about a female sex pill. Just like the invention of Viagra left me cold. All I can do is react sarcastically.
I am entirely uninvolved in "events", I do not care in the slightest whether they result in any effing satisfaction; good, bad, or indifferent.
Same goes for the Viagra the idiot tried to sell me.
Do I look limp and desperate?
Or just grouchy?
"SATISFYING SEXUAL EVENTS"
There are far too many of those in the world as it is. Why would anyone think that increasing their number would serve a useful purpose?
The economy will come to a halt if this is allowed.
Productivity will plummet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
AND I PROBABLY SMELL GOOD NOW!
Yesterday was beautiful. After four days surrounded by cigar-smokers in Marin, a day off is a slice of heaven. As well as an all-too brief re-acquaintance with my own sanity.
Now, that last part needs some explanation, no doubt because you dear reader presume me sane at all times, a veritable source of rational and balanced perspective on the universe.
Little secret: it's an act; half the time I've lost it.
By the second day I was already disturbed, having had less than four hours sleep the night before, as well as barely five the previous night. Coupled with an excess of caffeine, the heat added to the madness.
By the third day, I wasn't able to formulate my sentences in as perfect a manner as I normally expect of myself. On the fourth day, the cumulative sleep-starvation coupled with the oppressive heat contributed to a general air of fluttering loopiness, similar to Apu Nahasapeemapetilam tweeking in the Quicky Mart after working ninety six hours straight.
ROLL THE SECURITY TAPE, PLEASE
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q1aV0W-3qdM .]
Now, what other than heat contributed to my late hours?
Well, the caffeine. Of course.
Like most of the present generation, I am hepped to the gills. Except, unlike all the acolytes of Starbucks, my beverage of choice is not chock-full of fat and sugar.
I drink tea. No milk, and no sugar.
Non-fattening, anti-oxidant.
Strong hot tea.
So I am not a lardbutt either. Had to poke another hole in my belt to keep my pants from slipping down. Daaang I'm trim.
I do not look like a programmer.
If I were a woman, I'd wear yoga pants and show off my camel toe.
It goes without saying that, as a man, I absolutely loathe yoga pants.
WOMEN WHOM YOU CAN NEVER DATE:
1) Someone wearing yoga pants.
2) A woman with a tramp-stamp.
3) Angry black lesbians.
4) Vegans.
5) Republicans.
6) Harridans.
7) White vegetarians.
8) Anti-vaxxers.
9) Anyone who believes in auras, astrology, crystal healing, aliens, angels, past-life regression, or similar namby pamby cottonwool hooha.
There should be a tenth category, but I can't think of anything right now.
Women who don't floss between their toes.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Now, that last part needs some explanation, no doubt because you dear reader presume me sane at all times, a veritable source of rational and balanced perspective on the universe.
Little secret: it's an act; half the time I've lost it.
By the second day I was already disturbed, having had less than four hours sleep the night before, as well as barely five the previous night. Coupled with an excess of caffeine, the heat added to the madness.
By the third day, I wasn't able to formulate my sentences in as perfect a manner as I normally expect of myself. On the fourth day, the cumulative sleep-starvation coupled with the oppressive heat contributed to a general air of fluttering loopiness, similar to Apu Nahasapeemapetilam tweeking in the Quicky Mart after working ninety six hours straight.
ROLL THE SECURITY TAPE, PLEASE
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q1aV0W-3qdM .]
Now, what other than heat contributed to my late hours?
Well, the caffeine. Of course.
Like most of the present generation, I am hepped to the gills. Except, unlike all the acolytes of Starbucks, my beverage of choice is not chock-full of fat and sugar.
I drink tea. No milk, and no sugar.
Non-fattening, anti-oxidant.
Strong hot tea.
So I am not a lardbutt either. Had to poke another hole in my belt to keep my pants from slipping down. Daaang I'm trim.
I do not look like a programmer.
If I were a woman, I'd wear yoga pants and show off my camel toe.
It goes without saying that, as a man, I absolutely loathe yoga pants.
WOMEN WHOM YOU CAN NEVER DATE:
1) Someone wearing yoga pants.
2) A woman with a tramp-stamp.
3) Angry black lesbians.
4) Vegans.
5) Republicans.
6) Harridans.
7) White vegetarians.
8) Anti-vaxxers.
9) Anyone who believes in auras, astrology, crystal healing, aliens, angels, past-life regression, or similar namby pamby cottonwool hooha.
There should be a tenth category, but I can't think of anything right now.
Women who don't floss between their toes.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
FUEL FOR GOSSIP
It has become apparent that I am a grouchy old fart. Not always, and not severely so (my own estimation), but never the less and evenso.
My first thought upon hearing that another famous Englishman was being investigated for perversion was "of course he is a pervert; it goes with the territory!", followed almost immediately by wondering "is there ANY celebrity who doesn't engage in nastiness?"
Not until half an hour later did I start compiling a list of famous Englishmen and celebrities who were not thorough cads.
It's a short list, but there are some.
Compile your own.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
My first thought upon hearing that another famous Englishman was being investigated for perversion was "of course he is a pervert; it goes with the territory!", followed almost immediately by wondering "is there ANY celebrity who doesn't engage in nastiness?"
Not until half an hour later did I start compiling a list of famous Englishmen and celebrities who were not thorough cads.
It's a short list, but there are some.
Compile your own.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, August 17, 2015
QIU 邱 -- A MOST UNUSUAL GLYPH
This afternoon I had a long conversation with a gentleman from Shanghai regarding pipes and tobacco. As well as many other things. What became evident is that McClelland and GLPease products are known over there, along with Esoterica Tobacciana et autres, and aficionados have also learned about Sasieni, Comoy, Dunhill, and diverse other desirable brandnames. It wouldn't surprise me if within a few years many of the best collectable briars disappear into mainland China, and some mighty fine collections result that will fill us with envy. Of course, with anti-smoking fervor reducing our numbers over here and in Europe, that is probably a good thing. Many of the great tobacconists are gone, and several famous names have been so debased or entirely whored-out by modern management and marketing departments that their pipes or tobaccos are, on the whole, not worth acquiring. But having a huge new market open up, and enthusiasm for pipes and fine tobacco blossoming in China, can only be good. Much as it may distress the tobacco-hating "health" puritans, this brings renewed life to our hobby.The San Francisco Bay Area is ground zero for anti-tobacco fascism.
We are surrounded by disapproval and resentment.
Thank heavens China is fertile ground.
What was also apparent, and I am ashamed of this, is that the two main languages we had in common were spoken English and written Chinese, as logically he could not be expected to know Cantonese, and I have most regrettably neglected Mandarin. When we talked about food, we relied upon the characters for certain items. Bittermelon (苦瓜 'fu gwa', also called 涼瓜 ''leung gwa'), dioscorea opposita (淮山 'waai saan'), which he knows as 'shan yao' (山藥 'saan yeuk'), and others.
[Note: It is the season for moon cakes, so of course those were also discussed. One of the best places for locally made moon cakes is Eastern Bakery (東亞餅家 'tung aa bing gaa') at 720 Grant Avenue in San Francisco, on the corner of Commercial between Clay and Sacramento.]
邱 QIU
Which naturally brings me to the character for his surname ("just call me 'Q'"). Which is rather rare. Indeed, it does show up in the list of ancient name-characters, but given that ninety percent of the Chinese share about two dozen more common family names, and his isn't even in the top one hundred, you may readily grasp that while I recognized it, I could not remember how it is pronounced in Cantonese.
It wasn't until I got home that I remembered that back in the eighties and nineties one of the hottest actresses in Hong Kong had the same surname, and the correct pronunciation came back.
She was hot enough to make a man remember.
Chingmy Yau (邱淑貞 'yau suk jing').
Smoking? Oh Jesus yes.
Yau. Qiu in Mandarin.
A tumulus or mound, being the same as 丘 but with the addition of 阝(full form: 阜) on the right-hand side. That second character (阜 'fau'), which means hillock or sometimes outcropping often shows up in place names as well as ancient state names. By some authorities, both 邱 and 丘 are the same surname, the difference being a protective change when the simpler character became reserved for just one purpose: the given name of Confucius: 孔丘 ('hung yau') also known as Master Kung, 孔子 ('hung ji') and 孔夫子 ('hung fu ji').
Confucius lived two and a half millennia ago, whereas Chingmy Yau is alive today. Which one would I rather meet?
I'll leave you to guess.
The calligraphy at the top of this post is 邱 in seal-script. It reflects an older version of the mound which shows two people back to back (丠) on top of a small rise, like guardian figures or warriors facing a surrounding force.
Seal script is more curvilinear than chancellery style writing, but I think I've never-the-less captured the proportion and flow expected of a brushed character.
I probably need to practise more, though. A lot more. My strokes are stiff, and the brush does not feel natural.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
AMERICAN CONSERVATIVES
Two more perfect examples of the mostly Christian element in the United States than Donald Trump and Mike Huckabee cannot be found. Between the two of them, they represent the acme of American conservatism, the values that form the bedrock of this country.
TRUMP'S AMERICA
Donald Trump wants a permanent underclass of brown people without citizenship, who can be exploited by agriculture, restaurants, and the sex industry. This is evident by his utterances anent Mexicans and more recently illegal aliens.
Quote: "Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump says he wants to end the automatic right to citizenship for all children born in the United States."
[Source: Donald Trump: No citizenship for illegal migrants' babies, BBC.]
Please imagine what would happen if that were enacted. With our usual efficiency, these children would be fluent speakers of English desperate to remain in the United States by the time we got around to discovering them and their parents, but illiterate, feral, and entirely un-co-opted into society. They would, like all illegals, depend on working for shit wages while keeping a wary eye out for the La Migra, who quite likely would magically appear just before pay day, so that their "employer" could save even more money. The attractive teenage individuals among them would be preyed upon by America's sex-industry, without any protection whatsoever, and if killed accidentally in the course of prostitutory business, easily disposed of.
Because, after all, what's more important than paying shit wages and screwing people?
HUCKABEE'S AMERICA
Mike Huckabee believes that denying an abortion to a ten-year old girl raped by her step-dad was the right thing to do. Despite medical objections, the girl was forced to carry the baby to term. Mike Huckabee is a supporter of 'no-exception' policies regarding abortion, it turns out, and in that represents the vast majority of the Republican party as well as Republican voters.
Of course, if the ten-year old were the child of illegal immigrants, in a country where people like Trump and Huckabee were in charge, it wouldn't even be an issue. The crime would never be taken seriously as everyone involved would be wary of the authorities, medical care for the victim would be unavailable for very similar reasons, and the resultant baby would have no protection or rights either, unless the step father was a United States citizen. In which case he would probably be assigned custody.
The best that can be said about Trump and Huckabee is that they aren't Sarah Palin.
America: the country of conservative Christians.
Lord help us.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TRUMP'S AMERICA
Donald Trump wants a permanent underclass of brown people without citizenship, who can be exploited by agriculture, restaurants, and the sex industry. This is evident by his utterances anent Mexicans and more recently illegal aliens.
Quote: "Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump says he wants to end the automatic right to citizenship for all children born in the United States."
[Source: Donald Trump: No citizenship for illegal migrants' babies, BBC.]
Please imagine what would happen if that were enacted. With our usual efficiency, these children would be fluent speakers of English desperate to remain in the United States by the time we got around to discovering them and their parents, but illiterate, feral, and entirely un-co-opted into society. They would, like all illegals, depend on working for shit wages while keeping a wary eye out for the La Migra, who quite likely would magically appear just before pay day, so that their "employer" could save even more money. The attractive teenage individuals among them would be preyed upon by America's sex-industry, without any protection whatsoever, and if killed accidentally in the course of prostitutory business, easily disposed of.
Because, after all, what's more important than paying shit wages and screwing people?
HUCKABEE'S AMERICA
Mike Huckabee believes that denying an abortion to a ten-year old girl raped by her step-dad was the right thing to do. Despite medical objections, the girl was forced to carry the baby to term. Mike Huckabee is a supporter of 'no-exception' policies regarding abortion, it turns out, and in that represents the vast majority of the Republican party as well as Republican voters.
Of course, if the ten-year old were the child of illegal immigrants, in a country where people like Trump and Huckabee were in charge, it wouldn't even be an issue. The crime would never be taken seriously as everyone involved would be wary of the authorities, medical care for the victim would be unavailable for very similar reasons, and the resultant baby would have no protection or rights either, unless the step father was a United States citizen. In which case he would probably be assigned custody.
The best that can be said about Trump and Huckabee is that they aren't Sarah Palin.
America: the country of conservative Christians.
Lord help us.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, August 16, 2015
KIM DAVIS OF ROWAN COUNTY (KY) NEEDS A NEW JOB AND A WHIPPING
On Thursday, county clerk Kim Davis refused a court order to resume issuing marriage licenses to qualified applicants. Two months ago, rather than allowing gays in her territory to marry, she stopped issuing any marriage licenses. Because, of course, as a government employee, she insists that she need not obey any laws that she doesn't like.
Morehead is the Rome of the lesser Appalachians.
The law cannot protect you there, god rules.
People of faith make all the decisions.
Particularly, one type of faith.
Harsh and judgmental.
Clenched of jaw.
X-tian.
SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND STATE
A judge ordered her to resume.
She does not intend to do so.
It should be obvious that every one's religious freedom is limited by everyone else's religious freedom. Which means that the moment one person's expression of religion impacts on someone else's ability to exercise their own equivalent freedom, even if they choose to have no religious peculiarities whatsoever, violence and burning "heretics" at the stake become attractive responses.
Burning heretics at the stake -- such as members of several barbaric Christian cults -- has a fine history, which goes back all the way to the Romans. It's a traditional Christian practice.
I admire tradition.
Kim Davis says her Christian faith bars her from authorizing same-sex marriages. She need not worry; she does not have authority; she merely has the task of issuing licenses. Drudgework, more or less.
Her employer decided to expand the criteria required for those licenses.
Christian faith does not enter into it. We are not a clerical dictatorship.
When we become one, bloodshed may follow.
Along with burning. If not the nimbly fleeing heretics, their buildings.
Church buildings are all very clearly marked.
And stationary.
In a country with more firearms in private hands than there are people to handle those weapons, riding roughshod over someone else's rights is perhaps a foolhardy thing to do; we have a history of reacting badly.
And at this point, there are far more people who think that Kentucky is the devil's arsehole than people actually living in Kentucky. Rowan County may, in fact, be the very epicentre of daemonic bung.
Davis is a member of an "Apostolic Christian" church.
If that church is ordering members employed by the public to disobey the law, they should be immediately disqualified from all such jobs.
Furthermore, all Apostolic Christian Churches must be investigated to ascertain whether any others are hotbeds of law-breaking.
Or in any way encourage criminal behaviour.
Damned frock-coated thugs.
Oh heck, I might as well admit it. Christianity in many of its American forms makes my skin crawl, fundamentalist Christianity in particular is thoroughly nauseating, I despise most of the adherents, and there are only TWO things in Kentucky worth a tinkers curse, namely liquor and tobacco.
I do not respect anyone else's religion if it deviates from my personal beliefs. I respect their right to be wrong, however, as long as their boneheadedness has no impact on anyone else.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Morehead is the Rome of the lesser Appalachians.
The law cannot protect you there, god rules.
People of faith make all the decisions.
Particularly, one type of faith.
Harsh and judgmental.
Clenched of jaw.
X-tian.
SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND STATE
A judge ordered her to resume.
She does not intend to do so.
It should be obvious that every one's religious freedom is limited by everyone else's religious freedom. Which means that the moment one person's expression of religion impacts on someone else's ability to exercise their own equivalent freedom, even if they choose to have no religious peculiarities whatsoever, violence and burning "heretics" at the stake become attractive responses.
Burning heretics at the stake -- such as members of several barbaric Christian cults -- has a fine history, which goes back all the way to the Romans. It's a traditional Christian practice.
I admire tradition.
Kim Davis says her Christian faith bars her from authorizing same-sex marriages. She need not worry; she does not have authority; she merely has the task of issuing licenses. Drudgework, more or less.
Her employer decided to expand the criteria required for those licenses.
Christian faith does not enter into it. We are not a clerical dictatorship.
When we become one, bloodshed may follow.
Along with burning. If not the nimbly fleeing heretics, their buildings.
Church buildings are all very clearly marked.
And stationary.
In a country with more firearms in private hands than there are people to handle those weapons, riding roughshod over someone else's rights is perhaps a foolhardy thing to do; we have a history of reacting badly.
And at this point, there are far more people who think that Kentucky is the devil's arsehole than people actually living in Kentucky. Rowan County may, in fact, be the very epicentre of daemonic bung.
Davis is a member of an "Apostolic Christian" church.
If that church is ordering members employed by the public to disobey the law, they should be immediately disqualified from all such jobs.
Furthermore, all Apostolic Christian Churches must be investigated to ascertain whether any others are hotbeds of law-breaking.
Or in any way encourage criminal behaviour.
Damned frock-coated thugs.
Oh heck, I might as well admit it. Christianity in many of its American forms makes my skin crawl, fundamentalist Christianity in particular is thoroughly nauseating, I despise most of the adherents, and there are only TWO things in Kentucky worth a tinkers curse, namely liquor and tobacco.
I do not respect anyone else's religion if it deviates from my personal beliefs. I respect their right to be wrong, however, as long as their boneheadedness has no impact on anyone else.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, August 15, 2015
NIPPLES: NO SPACE REPTILES NEED APPLY
The wonderful thing about the internet is that it has revealed all of our deepest darkest secrets, but done so in an entirely anonymous way.
Everything we want is out there, whatever we fear is explained in excruciating (or juicy) detail.
Sometimes, we discover things that are surprisingly obvious.
Such as the fetishist tendencies of the general public.
A heartfelt & abiding fascination with nipples.
Which frequently brings new readers.
To this nipple-free blog.
No nipples!
Not, you understand, that I lack nipples; I am not a lizard-alien (repeat).
Like other mammalian males, I have also have them vestigially. But the focus of all internet searches for nipples, and I'm reasonably certain of this, are female nipples. Like many humanoid masculine types, I can completely understand the curiosity. The female human nipple is usually attached to "breast(s)", which in the right hands can be objects of beauty.
For a long time I was keenly aware of this, but for the past five years it has been a purely intellectual truth, as there has not been even one female breast in my life, let alone a complete set (or pair) of them.
The distressing absence of nipplosity weighs on me.
This is hardly a concern for my audience.
Such as it is.
An anonymous reader wrote:
"Politics are of more universal interest than, for example, what you put in your mouth on any particular day."
But what if it was nipples? A mouth is the natural place for a nipple.
One singled out, or non-partisan equal treatment for both.
[The anonymous reader who left that comment no doubt wants me to cater to every paranoid conspiracy Tom, Dick, and Harry west of the Pecos river. that ain't gonna happen. Writing about political subjects simply attracted the attention of nuts. Only some of whom agreed with me. Whereas writing about food, nipples, and tobacco, as subjects, appeals to a far broader spectrum, and better expresses my character.]
As I understand it, breasts like attention.
But it is extremely impolite to stare.
Under most circumstances.
Hence curiosity.
Undoubtedly that contradiction is the reason for two searches that brought readers here recently. Consider the search criteria:
"I can almost see your nipples"
And
"Let's look at nipples"
Fascinating. It's scientific inquiry at it's finest.
Nipples are much more interesting than politics or contemporary events, and attract far fewer conspiracy theorists and haters. Plus nipples draw the eye long after the relevance of other subjects has faded.
Kindly note at this point that there are absolutely NO pictures of nipples here. Yes, I know how to upload images, and no, I shall not place photos here that titillate. Horrid pun intended.
But, if you want to read about mammary glands in my words, I can make it easy for you.
COVER THE NIPPLE WITH PASTRY ...
To quote the dirty vicar in a notorious sketch by Monty Python, while fondling her ladyship's bosomy parts: "I like tits!" It is a most regrettable episode, as normally they were such nice Christian lads.
Cleaminded. Wholesome.
Here are five essays that do actually mention nipples. But while boobs are the magnets, the star attractions, if you will, that pull in the suckers, there are no revelations, and the wholesome thrill of "nippletude" is celebrated entirely without recourse to illustration or temptation.
Morphological variation
Written on Wednesday, November 5, 2014.
A blogpost directing the reader to a Wikipedia article about breasts. That article is quoted at length, and both the dome and cone shapes are duly described. It is dryly clinical, except for mention of dim sum, which are wonderful things to eat.
Important details
Written on Wednesday, April 8, 2015.
Results of French research into sag and tensility, comparing the bra-less versus the encapsulated breast. Sportsbras are also mentioned. Different functions demand different materials and construction.
The French are obsessed.
The proper fit
Written on Monday, August 3, 2015.
Responding to a friend who has a peculiar fascination with both breasts and lesbians. I don't know much about the first, and I avoid the latter.
Breasts that belong to lesbians are a hazard.
You cannot see any nipples here
Written on Tuesday, November 16, 2010.
The reason why you can't is because the essay is about lizards and Hello Kitty (and not nipples), as well as why you should never stare.
It might be taken amiss if you did.
To see, or not to see
Written on Friday, July 10, 2009.
This is the essay started it all. Nipples are mentioned in connection with coffee, and terraces in Paris, where coffee as well as nipples are enjoyed by many people. It is actually about language, and how easily mistakes can be made.
The link with nipples is tenuous, and all things considered, minor.
In all honesty, the subject of nipples does play a small role on this blog.
This should not be surprising, as men like breasts.
Well, many men do.
Some of them obsessively.
The word 'nipple' has a rather charming sound, and can be used evocatively. Sort of a calming mantra. Very reassuring. Just quietly repeat the word 'nipple' to yourself when you're alone sometime.
Nipple, nipple, nipple.
See?
The wonderful thing about nipples is that neither their absence nor their possible overabundance affect one's feelings towards them.
They remain items to be treasured fondly.
But I shan't go into details.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Everything we want is out there, whatever we fear is explained in excruciating (or juicy) detail.
Sometimes, we discover things that are surprisingly obvious.
Such as the fetishist tendencies of the general public.
A heartfelt & abiding fascination with nipples.
Which frequently brings new readers.
To this nipple-free blog.
No nipples!
Not, you understand, that I lack nipples; I am not a lizard-alien (repeat).
Like other mammalian males, I have also have them vestigially. But the focus of all internet searches for nipples, and I'm reasonably certain of this, are female nipples. Like many humanoid masculine types, I can completely understand the curiosity. The female human nipple is usually attached to "breast(s)", which in the right hands can be objects of beauty.
For a long time I was keenly aware of this, but for the past five years it has been a purely intellectual truth, as there has not been even one female breast in my life, let alone a complete set (or pair) of them.
The distressing absence of nipplosity weighs on me.
This is hardly a concern for my audience.
Such as it is.
An anonymous reader wrote:
"Politics are of more universal interest than, for example, what you put in your mouth on any particular day."
But what if it was nipples? A mouth is the natural place for a nipple.
One singled out, or non-partisan equal treatment for both.
[The anonymous reader who left that comment no doubt wants me to cater to every paranoid conspiracy Tom, Dick, and Harry west of the Pecos river. that ain't gonna happen. Writing about political subjects simply attracted the attention of nuts. Only some of whom agreed with me. Whereas writing about food, nipples, and tobacco, as subjects, appeals to a far broader spectrum, and better expresses my character.]
As I understand it, breasts like attention.
But it is extremely impolite to stare.
Under most circumstances.
Hence curiosity.
Undoubtedly that contradiction is the reason for two searches that brought readers here recently. Consider the search criteria:
"I can almost see your nipples"
And
"Let's look at nipples"
Fascinating. It's scientific inquiry at it's finest.
Nipples are much more interesting than politics or contemporary events, and attract far fewer conspiracy theorists and haters. Plus nipples draw the eye long after the relevance of other subjects has faded.
Kindly note at this point that there are absolutely NO pictures of nipples here. Yes, I know how to upload images, and no, I shall not place photos here that titillate. Horrid pun intended.
But, if you want to read about mammary glands in my words, I can make it easy for you.
COVER THE NIPPLE WITH PASTRY ...
To quote the dirty vicar in a notorious sketch by Monty Python, while fondling her ladyship's bosomy parts: "I like tits!" It is a most regrettable episode, as normally they were such nice Christian lads.
Cleaminded. Wholesome.
Here are five essays that do actually mention nipples. But while boobs are the magnets, the star attractions, if you will, that pull in the suckers, there are no revelations, and the wholesome thrill of "nippletude" is celebrated entirely without recourse to illustration or temptation.
Morphological variation
Written on Wednesday, November 5, 2014.
A blogpost directing the reader to a Wikipedia article about breasts. That article is quoted at length, and both the dome and cone shapes are duly described. It is dryly clinical, except for mention of dim sum, which are wonderful things to eat.
Important details
Written on Wednesday, April 8, 2015.
Results of French research into sag and tensility, comparing the bra-less versus the encapsulated breast. Sportsbras are also mentioned. Different functions demand different materials and construction.
The French are obsessed.
The proper fit
Written on Monday, August 3, 2015.
Responding to a friend who has a peculiar fascination with both breasts and lesbians. I don't know much about the first, and I avoid the latter.
Breasts that belong to lesbians are a hazard.
You cannot see any nipples here
Written on Tuesday, November 16, 2010.
The reason why you can't is because the essay is about lizards and Hello Kitty (and not nipples), as well as why you should never stare.
It might be taken amiss if you did.
To see, or not to see
Written on Friday, July 10, 2009.
This is the essay started it all. Nipples are mentioned in connection with coffee, and terraces in Paris, where coffee as well as nipples are enjoyed by many people. It is actually about language, and how easily mistakes can be made.
The link with nipples is tenuous, and all things considered, minor.
In all honesty, the subject of nipples does play a small role on this blog.
This should not be surprising, as men like breasts.
Well, many men do.
Some of them obsessively.
The word 'nipple' has a rather charming sound, and can be used evocatively. Sort of a calming mantra. Very reassuring. Just quietly repeat the word 'nipple' to yourself when you're alone sometime.
Nipple, nipple, nipple.
See?
The wonderful thing about nipples is that neither their absence nor their possible overabundance affect one's feelings towards them.
They remain items to be treasured fondly.
But I shan't go into details.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, August 14, 2015
POOR LITTLE WOOZUMS! HAVE SOME DRAGON EYE FRUIT!
When I came home yesterday afternoon to freshen up for the club meeting in the evening, my apartment mate was flaked out on her bed, fast asleep. Initially I thought that her damned boyfriend had exhausted her, and I wondered how a wheelchair-bound dingo could have done that. After all, even if he were abled, she could still kick his butt.
Poor little woozums.
But then I recalled that she had earlier in the day washed out her sleeping pants, and called in sick. So a more innocent explanation would be the monthly period.
That, too, is plenty exhausting.
Just ask any man.....
Most of whom become green and weak when that subject is mentioned, as if struck with sudden blood loss and cramps. Their eyes will mist over, and their skin turn clammy. Some might even faint.
Truly, the menses are hard on men.
Poor little woozums.
龍眼 DIMOCARPUS LONGAN
In any case, I got a new taste experience for the dear girl; longans. While on Stockton Street I bought a pound and a half of longan to take home. Longan is a relative of the lychee, with a yellowish-greenish-brownish outer husk and translucent whitish inner flesh surrounding a shiny dark brown pip. Best way to eat them is to split the husk with a thumbnail, halfway across, then use pressure to squeeze out the flesh in one piece. Which can be popped into the mouth, and with teeth and tongue separated from the pip. It's refreshing, and very good for you.
Maintains brain power, among other things, plus it is high in vitamin C.
Longans are also mood-enhancers, and combat tiredness and fatigue.
Generally speaking, they're mildly tonifying to the various organs.
The flesh has been likened to white jade.
As have any number of other things.
It's an over-used descriptive.
The pips are beautiful, inedible, and do not float.
While I was on the bus crossing the hill, an elderly gentleman begged to inform the Mandarin speaker next to him in the old folks seats that those things (longan) were very expensive. I hastened to reassure both of them that five dollars for that quantity of longan was not at all expensive, very reasonable in fact, but I think instead I managed to convince both of them that white folks are incredible spendthrifts. As well as busybodies who listen in. Her daughter, a very attractive young lady in her early twenties with bright eyes, is probably also convinced that white folks who speak Chinese are an incredible pain in the butt.
One more poor little woozums.
Earlier, she had been hugely embarrassed by her inability to understand a single word of Toishanese, OR the courtesies expected of a well-brought up girl-child when rickety fossils need a seat -- yes, that seat, that one there -- as well as by both of her parents pulling her upright. Then, further up the hill, it turned out Mandarin wasn't her strong suit either. Her mom politely explained to the Toishanese coot that the girl had been born in the United States, and had not had much opportunity to practice Chinese. "Oh well", says the fossil, "then I cannot hold it against her, she probably speaks English passably, eh?". There was no evidence for that assertion, as the girl kept silent.
Her father, on the other side of the wizened gnome, put his head in his hands and desperately tried to ignore everything going on about him. The girl, not quite knowing what was going on, looked resentful and irritated. The mother sussed the antique from Toisan by explaining that American kids usually don't know much. Or anything at all.
I could hear the father moan.
The superannuated old stick insect politely changed the subject. What had brought them to Chinatown (given that they were clearly prosperous outsiders who normally would never go there)? Oh, seeing sights and eating food? Yes, there is some very nice food in the neighborhood. And cheap, too! Except, and here he pointed at my bag of longan, for things like that. Very expensive!
很貴啦！
At which point I opined that longan weren't expensive, quite affordable in fact. You know, I really feel sorry for American-born Chinese kids when there are so many middle-aged Caucasians who can understand Chinese, and don't feel at all embarrassed to step in and say whatever they want. White dudes have absolutely no sensitivity, and whenever they speak it only makes everyone else look bad.
It's really excrutiating! Jeez!
DRAGON EYES
Five dollars for a bag of longan is quite reasonable.
That girl would look nicer if she smiled more.
Plenty cute though, even when frowning.
Maybe she needs some longan.
Poor little woozums.
And yes, for your information, like all white guys who speak Chinese, my accent is horrible, and I am a giant pain in the butt.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Poor little woozums.
But then I recalled that she had earlier in the day washed out her sleeping pants, and called in sick. So a more innocent explanation would be the monthly period.
That, too, is plenty exhausting.
Just ask any man.....
Most of whom become green and weak when that subject is mentioned, as if struck with sudden blood loss and cramps. Their eyes will mist over, and their skin turn clammy. Some might even faint.
Truly, the menses are hard on men.
Poor little woozums.
龍眼 DIMOCARPUS LONGAN
In any case, I got a new taste experience for the dear girl; longans. While on Stockton Street I bought a pound and a half of longan to take home. Longan is a relative of the lychee, with a yellowish-greenish-brownish outer husk and translucent whitish inner flesh surrounding a shiny dark brown pip. Best way to eat them is to split the husk with a thumbnail, halfway across, then use pressure to squeeze out the flesh in one piece. Which can be popped into the mouth, and with teeth and tongue separated from the pip. It's refreshing, and very good for you.
Maintains brain power, among other things, plus it is high in vitamin C.
Longans are also mood-enhancers, and combat tiredness and fatigue.
Generally speaking, they're mildly tonifying to the various organs.
The flesh has been likened to white jade.
As have any number of other things.
It's an over-used descriptive.
The pips are beautiful, inedible, and do not float.
While I was on the bus crossing the hill, an elderly gentleman begged to inform the Mandarin speaker next to him in the old folks seats that those things (longan) were very expensive. I hastened to reassure both of them that five dollars for that quantity of longan was not at all expensive, very reasonable in fact, but I think instead I managed to convince both of them that white folks are incredible spendthrifts. As well as busybodies who listen in. Her daughter, a very attractive young lady in her early twenties with bright eyes, is probably also convinced that white folks who speak Chinese are an incredible pain in the butt.
One more poor little woozums.
Earlier, she had been hugely embarrassed by her inability to understand a single word of Toishanese, OR the courtesies expected of a well-brought up girl-child when rickety fossils need a seat -- yes, that seat, that one there -- as well as by both of her parents pulling her upright. Then, further up the hill, it turned out Mandarin wasn't her strong suit either. Her mom politely explained to the Toishanese coot that the girl had been born in the United States, and had not had much opportunity to practice Chinese. "Oh well", says the fossil, "then I cannot hold it against her, she probably speaks English passably, eh?". There was no evidence for that assertion, as the girl kept silent.
Her father, on the other side of the wizened gnome, put his head in his hands and desperately tried to ignore everything going on about him. The girl, not quite knowing what was going on, looked resentful and irritated. The mother sussed the antique from Toisan by explaining that American kids usually don't know much. Or anything at all.
I could hear the father moan.
The superannuated old stick insect politely changed the subject. What had brought them to Chinatown (given that they were clearly prosperous outsiders who normally would never go there)? Oh, seeing sights and eating food? Yes, there is some very nice food in the neighborhood. And cheap, too! Except, and here he pointed at my bag of longan, for things like that. Very expensive!
很貴啦！
At which point I opined that longan weren't expensive, quite affordable in fact. You know, I really feel sorry for American-born Chinese kids when there are so many middle-aged Caucasians who can understand Chinese, and don't feel at all embarrassed to step in and say whatever they want. White dudes have absolutely no sensitivity, and whenever they speak it only makes everyone else look bad.
It's really excrutiating! Jeez!
DRAGON EYES
Five dollars for a bag of longan is quite reasonable.
That girl would look nicer if she smiled more.
Plenty cute though, even when frowning.
Maybe she needs some longan.
Poor little woozums.
And yes, for your information, like all white guys who speak Chinese, my accent is horrible, and I am a giant pain in the butt.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, August 13, 2015
POST APATHESIS PIE
Many of my friends have expressed worry at the changes on this blog over the last four years. What, they wonder, has happened to me? Don't I care any longer about the causes I used to support? Am I no longer a crusader for truth, justice, and pie? Where is my concern? Where is my passion?
Well okay then. I can understand that.
Rest assured that nothing has really changed. I still care profoundly and passionately about everything. Politics, the Middle East, dipwads in Berkeley, and especially sex, food, and love in a hot climate.
Oh, and pipe tobacco.
Plus pie.
It's just that this blog was beginning to sound like a broken record, much like everyone's facebook feed. Same damned calls to arms, same accusations of political knavery, and the same neurotic worries.
Everything basically becomes Bernie Sanders.
Or Trump. Or Hillary's e-mail.
Pythons in Florida.
Oh well.
SEX, FOOD, AND LOVE IN A HOT CLIMATE
You know, I'd love to write something deeply meaningful about sex, except that A) there has been absolutely none of that in a long time, and B) other auteurs do a far better job out of making what is a wonderful and happy play-activity seem seedy, depressing, and unappealing.
Same goes for food. The rise of cooking shows has made the entire subject tedious. Overindulgence with Guy Fieriririry, violent kitchen behaviour with some English yobbo who hates yanks, the all-avocado channel, and inedible regional specialties you should run away from.
Love during warm weather requires air-conditioning or ice-cubes.
The hugely depressing deficit in the sex thing has not been because of disinterest or inability, merely a staggering lack of opportunity. If the right person magically appeared, things would be different.
And if wishes were wings, pigs might fly.
Food, as a blog-subject, has limitations.
And love, all things considered, is one of the most nauseating subjects on the planet. Countless soft-in-the-heads have transformed what might once have been a serious item of consideration into a festering dungheap of tawdry pablum. A sugary sewer.
Do you really need a love-motif to come here?
Are the hero's adventures pointless without a busty blonde?
Well then, a movie script:
DIAMOND EYES
They had loved each other since junior high. She gazed into his eyes while they shared a hot dog. During college, they seldom saw each other, except at church meetings. Where he gazed into her eyes, as long as no one was watching, like in the vestry. Love went on the backburner as both of them ate pizza and studied for their exams.
After graduation, he went into finance, she became a nurse. Years later he fled the country because his white collar crime spree had been found out. While on the run in Africa, he met a nurse in a clinic where he went for a case of food-poisoning (he thought it was brain-fever). They recognized each other, and gazed into each other's eyes. Over chicken and jollof rice (with fried plantains), they suddenly realized that they had always loved each other.
He then saved her from terrorists and Russians, and a subsequent presidential pardon made everything okay. While they were on their honeymoon in the south of France, he conned the Emir of Hatay out of twenty billion to fund a penguin sanctuary.
Following that, they were on the run again.
And live happily ever after.
It's heartwarming, and romantic.
And sort of about food and sex.
There are far worse things to hold the public's profound disinterest than pipe tobacco and milk tea.
And if there were any sex to write about, you would never see it mentioned here.
At this very moment, I would really like some pie.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Well okay then. I can understand that.
Rest assured that nothing has really changed. I still care profoundly and passionately about everything. Politics, the Middle East, dipwads in Berkeley, and especially sex, food, and love in a hot climate.
Oh, and pipe tobacco.
Plus pie.
It's just that this blog was beginning to sound like a broken record, much like everyone's facebook feed. Same damned calls to arms, same accusations of political knavery, and the same neurotic worries.
Everything basically becomes Bernie Sanders.
Or Trump. Or Hillary's e-mail.
Pythons in Florida.
Oh well.
SEX, FOOD, AND LOVE IN A HOT CLIMATE
You know, I'd love to write something deeply meaningful about sex, except that A) there has been absolutely none of that in a long time, and B) other auteurs do a far better job out of making what is a wonderful and happy play-activity seem seedy, depressing, and unappealing.
Same goes for food. The rise of cooking shows has made the entire subject tedious. Overindulgence with Guy Fieriririry, violent kitchen behaviour with some English yobbo who hates yanks, the all-avocado channel, and inedible regional specialties you should run away from.
Love during warm weather requires air-conditioning or ice-cubes.
The hugely depressing deficit in the sex thing has not been because of disinterest or inability, merely a staggering lack of opportunity. If the right person magically appeared, things would be different.
And if wishes were wings, pigs might fly.
Food, as a blog-subject, has limitations.
And love, all things considered, is one of the most nauseating subjects on the planet. Countless soft-in-the-heads have transformed what might once have been a serious item of consideration into a festering dungheap of tawdry pablum. A sugary sewer.
Do you really need a love-motif to come here?
Are the hero's adventures pointless without a busty blonde?
Well then, a movie script:
DIAMOND EYES
They had loved each other since junior high. She gazed into his eyes while they shared a hot dog. During college, they seldom saw each other, except at church meetings. Where he gazed into her eyes, as long as no one was watching, like in the vestry. Love went on the backburner as both of them ate pizza and studied for their exams.
After graduation, he went into finance, she became a nurse. Years later he fled the country because his white collar crime spree had been found out. While on the run in Africa, he met a nurse in a clinic where he went for a case of food-poisoning (he thought it was brain-fever). They recognized each other, and gazed into each other's eyes. Over chicken and jollof rice (with fried plantains), they suddenly realized that they had always loved each other.
He then saved her from terrorists and Russians, and a subsequent presidential pardon made everything okay. While they were on their honeymoon in the south of France, he conned the Emir of Hatay out of twenty billion to fund a penguin sanctuary.
Following that, they were on the run again.
And live happily ever after.
It's heartwarming, and romantic.
And sort of about food and sex.
There are far worse things to hold the public's profound disinterest than pipe tobacco and milk tea.
And if there were any sex to write about, you would never see it mentioned here.
At this very moment, I would really like some pie.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
PORTSMOUTH SQUARE: IT'S AWESOME
After buying some bittermelon and gailan, I smoked my pipe while wandering through Chinatown, eventually ending up on the edge of Portsmouth Square. I chose a bench far from the streetpeople.
And not too close to the dissolute gambling retirees.
While I was sitting there, a subfunctional black gentleman tried to tell me about the time of his life that he was presently at. So I moved.
On the way to a new bench, a very disturbed white gentleman trotted past, screaming angrily in gibberish. By the time I sat down again, he was jumping up and down near two Chinese ladies, who just looked at him as if to say "go back to your home planet, you have reached the end of what anal-probing can teach us". He howled in fury at some children, who ignored him, then stumbled out to harass the chess players further down the slope, invisible behind the shrubs that marked the periphery.
We could hear him cussing up a storm, and occasionally outbursting.
His voice gradually faded as he drifted further away.
Out of sight, entirely out of mind.
Finally out of hearing.
Meanwhile a large black woman with a tee-shirt too short and small swanned around the park, her enormous goobly stomach wattles and wrinkles providing an element of visual pollution. She came near me twice, but I stolidly avoided catching her eyes. She settled on an elderly Mexican, who upped and left in a hurry, muttering something about his "madre".
I'm guessing she looked just like that. Or not.
Seriously, I hope nobody's mom looks like those woobly-gooblies. It's enough to give a man nightmares. I don't mind exposure, near-nudity, or even nearly entire nudity, but I will still insist that I should have a choice of who I see, where I see her, and why I am seeing what is to be seen.
She scored some vodka from a friend, and retired to an empty bench conveniently close to the public rest-rooms. There were a few other folks there, lying on cardboard and a sleeping bag. By their looks they had all had a rough night of it, one of several in that exact same location.
Companionably they passed the bottle back and forth.
Her stomach now overflowed her belt, and a glob of it reposed in the space between her sternum and her thighs. I expect that her navel was also there somewhere, but I dared not look intently to make certain.
A worn leathery texture twixt cracked mud and a relief map of the Atlas mountains -- canyons, gullies, ridges, cliffs, and declivities and all, is NOT presentable, even if the weather is summery warm. May I suggest some peachy golden gams and nicely sculpted upper arms instead?
The roundings, the curvings, and the smoothings.
Now, that, we can all get behind.
I became aware of a conversation behind me. When I looked around a bearded white type was having a deep conversation with a nearby tree trunk. He seemed very upset about something -- being too far away to actually hear the details, I cannot report what -- and the tree just stood there, patiently listening, and occasionally doing nothing at all in an understanding manner.
To my right, three dumpy Filipinas modelled for photos. To my left, a dumpy blonde family from Europe did the same.
There was an intense smell of grape jelly. Not cheap perfume, or the fragrance from any food, I realized that a hobo had lit up a flavoured cigar nearby. I spotted him hovering over five old ladies playing cards.
They ignored him. Like they ignore so many non-Chinese.
All of whom are manifestly nuts.
I did not light up a pipe while I was there. Firearms,drugs, smoking, and alcohol are forbidden in San Francisco's parks.
You have to be crazy to break the law.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And not too close to the dissolute gambling retirees.
While I was sitting there, a subfunctional black gentleman tried to tell me about the time of his life that he was presently at. So I moved.
On the way to a new bench, a very disturbed white gentleman trotted past, screaming angrily in gibberish. By the time I sat down again, he was jumping up and down near two Chinese ladies, who just looked at him as if to say "go back to your home planet, you have reached the end of what anal-probing can teach us". He howled in fury at some children, who ignored him, then stumbled out to harass the chess players further down the slope, invisible behind the shrubs that marked the periphery.
We could hear him cussing up a storm, and occasionally outbursting.
His voice gradually faded as he drifted further away.
Out of sight, entirely out of mind.
Finally out of hearing.
Meanwhile a large black woman with a tee-shirt too short and small swanned around the park, her enormous goobly stomach wattles and wrinkles providing an element of visual pollution. She came near me twice, but I stolidly avoided catching her eyes. She settled on an elderly Mexican, who upped and left in a hurry, muttering something about his "madre".
I'm guessing she looked just like that. Or not.
Seriously, I hope nobody's mom looks like those woobly-gooblies. It's enough to give a man nightmares. I don't mind exposure, near-nudity, or even nearly entire nudity, but I will still insist that I should have a choice of who I see, where I see her, and why I am seeing what is to be seen.
She scored some vodka from a friend, and retired to an empty bench conveniently close to the public rest-rooms. There were a few other folks there, lying on cardboard and a sleeping bag. By their looks they had all had a rough night of it, one of several in that exact same location.
Companionably they passed the bottle back and forth.
Her stomach now overflowed her belt, and a glob of it reposed in the space between her sternum and her thighs. I expect that her navel was also there somewhere, but I dared not look intently to make certain.
A worn leathery texture twixt cracked mud and a relief map of the Atlas mountains -- canyons, gullies, ridges, cliffs, and declivities and all, is NOT presentable, even if the weather is summery warm. May I suggest some peachy golden gams and nicely sculpted upper arms instead?
The roundings, the curvings, and the smoothings.
Now, that, we can all get behind.
I became aware of a conversation behind me. When I looked around a bearded white type was having a deep conversation with a nearby tree trunk. He seemed very upset about something -- being too far away to actually hear the details, I cannot report what -- and the tree just stood there, patiently listening, and occasionally doing nothing at all in an understanding manner.
To my right, three dumpy Filipinas modelled for photos. To my left, a dumpy blonde family from Europe did the same.
There was an intense smell of grape jelly. Not cheap perfume, or the fragrance from any food, I realized that a hobo had lit up a flavoured cigar nearby. I spotted him hovering over five old ladies playing cards.
They ignored him. Like they ignore so many non-Chinese.
All of whom are manifestly nuts.
I did not light up a pipe while I was there. Firearms,drugs, smoking, and alcohol are forbidden in San Francisco's parks.
You have to be crazy to break the law.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A FABULOUS CREATURE!
Warning: This video is NOT for rabbit lovers! In fact, if you love rabbits for any other reason than food, you should probably not click 'play'.
You will be traumatised.
If, on the other paw, you like stoats, you will likely be enchanted, and judge this the most charming video you have seen all week. Stoats are so very lovely! So smart, so playful, so full of vim and vigour!
Stoats, you will aver, are the best animals ever!
You may even squeal with delight.
Not very stoatlike.
BEST. CHOREOGRAPHY. EVER!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uZOjwzInj2g.]
After watching this video several times, you will no doubt be wondering how a stoat would cook a rabbit. Sadly, we don't speak stoat.
So we do not know.
Stoatish is a hard language to learn.
Or so we have heard.
I am presently looking for a bio-scientist or wildlife researcher who speaks Stoatish. Preferably female and good with animals, as the critter in question (mustela erminea) is shy and skittish, and might easily feel threatened. For the same reason, it is probably best that she is not too large. Less than five foot five inches would be ideal.
Keen weasel and ferret-like abilities are a must.
Some burrowing or digging may be required.
An intellectually curious stoat-person.
With unexpected super powers.
I have rabbit recipes!
You may, if you feel so inclined, leave your contact data in the comments form provided at the end of this post.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
You will be traumatised.
If, on the other paw, you like stoats, you will likely be enchanted, and judge this the most charming video you have seen all week. Stoats are so very lovely! So smart, so playful, so full of vim and vigour!
Stoats, you will aver, are the best animals ever!
You may even squeal with delight.
Not very stoatlike.
BEST. CHOREOGRAPHY. EVER!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uZOjwzInj2g.]
After watching this video several times, you will no doubt be wondering how a stoat would cook a rabbit. Sadly, we don't speak stoat.
So we do not know.
Stoatish is a hard language to learn.
Or so we have heard.
I am presently looking for a bio-scientist or wildlife researcher who speaks Stoatish. Preferably female and good with animals, as the critter in question (mustela erminea) is shy and skittish, and might easily feel threatened. For the same reason, it is probably best that she is not too large. Less than five foot five inches would be ideal.
Keen weasel and ferret-like abilities are a must.
Some burrowing or digging may be required.
An intellectually curious stoat-person.
With unexpected super powers.
I have rabbit recipes!
You may, if you feel so inclined, leave your contact data in the comments form provided at the end of this post.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
COMMITTING PUBLIC SERVICE
My friend the amphibian and I are altruists. At the very least, we are concerned with public order, and will do whatever we can to preserve rectitude and propriety in the market place. While we were passing the New Asia on Pacific Street, among the welter of colourful Cantonese Opera advertisements and ballroom dancing competitions he noticed a sheet that had been pasted among them reading "bad women at New Asia".
It was a photo of a pleasant nude woman eating noodles.
Naturally, being public spirited, we took it down.
Possibly an evil revenge posting.
A jilted amour.
Ladies, never let your lover photograph you while eating noodles.
Naked or otherwise. It just isn't right.
I am looking at it right now. She has a friendly smile, and one pert nipple is visible behind a well-shaped biceps. Slightly plump or sleek, though that may be just baby fat carried into the mid-twenties.
She appears to be very well-tempered.
Her three-part name is written on the sheet, but I shan't divulge it. No one deserves to have their exemplary naked body shown to the public without their express consent. Which is likely not the case here.
What kind of noodles are they? And what odd chain of circumstance led to them being eaten while en déshabillé? Was it fun?
I must admit that those thighs look very nice.
The entire package does, quite frankly.
Noodles are altogether wondrous.
A great snack withal.
Jayzus yes.
In any case, we saved you from a fate worse than death, that being that all your neighbors would know what you look like naked, without a stitch, in the buff. Including the dimensions of the perky right nipple, that being the one that is visible from this angle.
It is a very nice nipple.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It was a photo of a pleasant nude woman eating noodles.
Naturally, being public spirited, we took it down.
Possibly an evil revenge posting.
A jilted amour.
Ladies, never let your lover photograph you while eating noodles.
Naked or otherwise. It just isn't right.
I am looking at it right now. She has a friendly smile, and one pert nipple is visible behind a well-shaped biceps. Slightly plump or sleek, though that may be just baby fat carried into the mid-twenties.
She appears to be very well-tempered.
Her three-part name is written on the sheet, but I shan't divulge it. No one deserves to have their exemplary naked body shown to the public without their express consent. Which is likely not the case here.
What kind of noodles are they? And what odd chain of circumstance led to them being eaten while en déshabillé? Was it fun?
I must admit that those thighs look very nice.
The entire package does, quite frankly.
Noodles are altogether wondrous.
A great snack withal.
Jayzus yes.
In any case, we saved you from a fate worse than death, that being that all your neighbors would know what you look like naked, without a stitch, in the buff. Including the dimensions of the perky right nipple, that being the one that is visible from this angle.
It is a very nice nipple.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
PENZANCE: A PIPE TOBACCO OF CULT STATURE
Years ago Germain & Son were unheard of on these shores, their offerings limited to only a small circle of devotees beyond England. Unfortunately, that has changed. Now every Tom, Dick, and Harry keenly desires to lay his or her greasy claws on these extraordinarily fine inventions.
But not all of their products are sacramental.
Among other things they make King James Mixture, Germain's Latakia Mixture, 1820, and various very nice flakes. All fine products. Along with Special Latakia Flake, Uncle Tom's Mixture, and Plum Cake.
[Respectively: a medium Latakia blend, a delightful full blend, and a spicy medium full. The flakes are excellent Virginias, very rewarding. Uncle Tom's is a medium Virginia with touches of unflavoured black Cavendish and air-cured leaf, and Plum Cake is a most peculiar aromatic which I rather like, despite my severe Protestant disapproval of such froofy products. I smoked fifty grammes with great enjoyment, and have a few enamel tins in my stockpile.]
But the ditzy devotees are focused specifically and obsessively on only two items, both in the Esoterica Tobacciana line.
Minor deities.
Stonehaven, and Penzance.
All bow down and make obeisance.
And thank you. Your abjection is acceptable.
Stonehaven and Penzance have a vicious and thoroughly oppressive cult-following, who delight in making other smokers' lives hell, by snapping up every shred they can, when and wherever it is sold.
As well as tormenting tobacco vendors far afield, whom they will obsessively telephone, demanding that all supplies of Stonehaven and Penzance be shipped to them immediately, expense be buggered.
And Margate, if that is available.
NEENER, NEENER, NEENER!
These religious nuts then expend overmuch energy boasting about their growing stockpile, and what great age it already has, as well as how buggery much they shall savour this EXQUISE treasure which you can't do, because you don't have any, you poor sodding inferior person!
Penzance particularly attracts the batshit crazies.
Good lord, they are a plague.
Remarkable for a tobacco which is hardly ever available. Deliveries from the importer (Arango) are sporadic, and based not on demand, but on whatever gets shipped over from the Channel Islands.
Germain and Son have been in business for over two centuries, and at present have only half a dozen people on staff.
They are a small enterprise.
Production will not be ramped up to meet demand, for two reasons:
1) Stocks of blending tobacco are laid down years before they will be used. Consequently, any increase would necessarily be gradual, and would be based on very sober assessment of long-term needs.
2) Quality control. They've got it with the current levels of production, they like what they've got, and they're not in the business of taking risks in that regard.
I should mention that due to the peculiarities of the equipment used to manufacture tobacco into a finished product for the pipe, adding to the machinery would take quite an investment. It would have to be tailor-made. Nowadays that might be somewhat difficult.
In short: while demand exploded, supply barely increased.
So what is this manna among the mixtures?
PENZANCE
A mottled heavy-pressed English-style compound, comprised of Latakia, Turkish, and Virginia. Thick slices that crumble almost without effort into shreds and fragments perfect for the pipe. Quite likely the best echo of Bengal Slices anyone is likely to encounter, although Blakeney's Best Latakia Flake by McClelland, and several extraordinary English slices by Gregory Pease are as good, and as addictive.
The peculiar nature of compressed full Latakia blends is that the Latakia, even at fifty percent more or less, is softened considerably, and rather than dominating, lends an almost perfumed mildness to the smoke. Turkish changes too, adding a sweeter taste by that 'densification' than would otherwise be the case.
Because of the Virginias, a little age has extraordinary effect.
Note that heat also plays a part in production.
They are well-melded in consequence.
What this means to you is that you will not taste it the same way as other smokers. It is indeed a full Latakia strength. But you might not think so.
It has a fair measure of Turkish, which may not dominate either. And the Virginias, by contributing carotenoids (the flavour component in stonefruits), may trick you into assuming an added perfume, especially in concert with the resins of the Ottoman leaf.
In such a tobacco mixture, Latakia functions almost like a fixing agent, as used in parfumerie.
It could seem too mild. Or too full-bodied.
Or, like bear porridge, just right.
It depends entirely on you.
Smoke it contemplatively, preferably late at night, when you have a bottle of sherry on the table. Think of railroads, and steamers unloading. Wharves, docks, magazines. Distant termini. Far boundaries of empire.
All good things come again, in one form or another.
Yes, I have some of it set aside for a rainy day.
Acquired a few more tins recently.
Not planning to smoke it for a while, as I have many other tobaccos open.
Sixpence, by Greg Pease. Triple Play. Jackknife Plug. Navigator. Hal O'The Wynd, by Rattray, Professional Mixture and Old Gowrie. Samuel Gawith's Best Brown Flake. Capstan, and Orlik Golden Sliced.
McClelland's No. 24 Virginia.
And I've run out of sherry.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But not all of their products are sacramental.
Among other things they make King James Mixture, Germain's Latakia Mixture, 1820, and various very nice flakes. All fine products. Along with Special Latakia Flake, Uncle Tom's Mixture, and Plum Cake.
[Respectively: a medium Latakia blend, a delightful full blend, and a spicy medium full. The flakes are excellent Virginias, very rewarding. Uncle Tom's is a medium Virginia with touches of unflavoured black Cavendish and air-cured leaf, and Plum Cake is a most peculiar aromatic which I rather like, despite my severe Protestant disapproval of such froofy products. I smoked fifty grammes with great enjoyment, and have a few enamel tins in my stockpile.]
But the ditzy devotees are focused specifically and obsessively on only two items, both in the Esoterica Tobacciana line.
Minor deities.
Stonehaven, and Penzance.
All bow down and make obeisance.
And thank you. Your abjection is acceptable.
Stonehaven and Penzance have a vicious and thoroughly oppressive cult-following, who delight in making other smokers' lives hell, by snapping up every shred they can, when and wherever it is sold.
As well as tormenting tobacco vendors far afield, whom they will obsessively telephone, demanding that all supplies of Stonehaven and Penzance be shipped to them immediately, expense be buggered.
And Margate, if that is available.
NEENER, NEENER, NEENER!
These religious nuts then expend overmuch energy boasting about their growing stockpile, and what great age it already has, as well as how buggery much they shall savour this EXQUISE treasure which you can't do, because you don't have any, you poor sodding inferior person!
Penzance particularly attracts the batshit crazies.
Good lord, they are a plague.
Remarkable for a tobacco which is hardly ever available. Deliveries from the importer (Arango) are sporadic, and based not on demand, but on whatever gets shipped over from the Channel Islands.
Germain and Son have been in business for over two centuries, and at present have only half a dozen people on staff.
They are a small enterprise.
Production will not be ramped up to meet demand, for two reasons:
1) Stocks of blending tobacco are laid down years before they will be used. Consequently, any increase would necessarily be gradual, and would be based on very sober assessment of long-term needs.
2) Quality control. They've got it with the current levels of production, they like what they've got, and they're not in the business of taking risks in that regard.
I should mention that due to the peculiarities of the equipment used to manufacture tobacco into a finished product for the pipe, adding to the machinery would take quite an investment. It would have to be tailor-made. Nowadays that might be somewhat difficult.
In short: while demand exploded, supply barely increased.
So what is this manna among the mixtures?
PENZANCE
A mottled heavy-pressed English-style compound, comprised of Latakia, Turkish, and Virginia. Thick slices that crumble almost without effort into shreds and fragments perfect for the pipe. Quite likely the best echo of Bengal Slices anyone is likely to encounter, although Blakeney's Best Latakia Flake by McClelland, and several extraordinary English slices by Gregory Pease are as good, and as addictive.
The peculiar nature of compressed full Latakia blends is that the Latakia, even at fifty percent more or less, is softened considerably, and rather than dominating, lends an almost perfumed mildness to the smoke. Turkish changes too, adding a sweeter taste by that 'densification' than would otherwise be the case.
Because of the Virginias, a little age has extraordinary effect.
Note that heat also plays a part in production.
They are well-melded in consequence.
What this means to you is that you will not taste it the same way as other smokers. It is indeed a full Latakia strength. But you might not think so.
It has a fair measure of Turkish, which may not dominate either. And the Virginias, by contributing carotenoids (the flavour component in stonefruits), may trick you into assuming an added perfume, especially in concert with the resins of the Ottoman leaf.
In such a tobacco mixture, Latakia functions almost like a fixing agent, as used in parfumerie.
It could seem too mild. Or too full-bodied.
Or, like bear porridge, just right.
It depends entirely on you.
Smoke it contemplatively, preferably late at night, when you have a bottle of sherry on the table. Think of railroads, and steamers unloading. Wharves, docks, magazines. Distant termini. Far boundaries of empire.
All good things come again, in one form or another.
Yes, I have some of it set aside for a rainy day.
Acquired a few more tins recently.
Not planning to smoke it for a while, as I have many other tobaccos open.
Sixpence, by Greg Pease. Triple Play. Jackknife Plug. Navigator. Hal O'The Wynd, by Rattray, Professional Mixture and Old Gowrie. Samuel Gawith's Best Brown Flake. Capstan, and Orlik Golden Sliced.
McClelland's No. 24 Virginia.
And I've run out of sherry.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SPOFFORD NEEDS REAL BENCHES
One way to improve Spofford Alley would be to remove all the stupid concrete obstacles (planters and round blocks) that some dogoodniks littered along the entire length of the block. In fact, most of the concrete sitting blocks in Chinatown alleys are an utter waste of space and uncomfortable, as well as rather remarkably ugly.
Pigeons dump on them in any case.
No one wants to sit there.
Put in some real benches, for heavens sake, and if you're worried about bums sleeping there make them divided seating so no one can lie down.
Entirely aside from which, bums already sleep in Chinatown. There is an entire colony of them in Hang Ah, right next to the Willie Woo Woo Wong Playground. As well as half a dozen dossed down in the entry way to Chong Kee Jan on Walter Lum, facing Portsmouth Square. Which, by the way, has several seriously disturbed people infesting the shrubbery at all hours. They dominate when the gamblers leave for the night.
I suppose having homeless people sleep outdoors in Chinatown, even if the vast majority of those that actually do so aren't Chinese but white and black crazies, is a convenience for everyone in San Francisco. Because they aren't bothering any of the folks in the shopping areas downtown when they're there, nor befouling doorways in the Financial District.
They are entirely out of sight, and out of mind.
And really, who is complaining?
My favourite alleys are Hang Ah, because during the daytime it is quiet and not particularly skeevy; Spofford and Ross, which are both mixed residential and commercial, plus Wentworth and Becket below Grant Avenue. But absolutely the nicest alleys are Trenton between Jackson and Pacific, and Commercial from Grant down to Leidesdorff.
I note that there are very nice benches on Commercial between Kearny and Sansome, after one enters the Financial District. Obviously, pudgy office workers need to sit down far more than fragile elderly Chinese, even if the only time that they will do so outdoors is during lunch.
You know, real benches in many of the Chinatown alleyways would be very nice. It would allow seniors to spend more time outdoors, and the neighborhood would become so much brighter and more livable.
Yes, I know. Lots of benches in Portsmouth Square.
Did I already mention the disturbed people?
And smoking is not allowed in parks.
Many elderly men smoke.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Pigeons dump on them in any case.
No one wants to sit there.
Put in some real benches, for heavens sake, and if you're worried about bums sleeping there make them divided seating so no one can lie down.
Entirely aside from which, bums already sleep in Chinatown. There is an entire colony of them in Hang Ah, right next to the Willie Woo Woo Wong Playground. As well as half a dozen dossed down in the entry way to Chong Kee Jan on Walter Lum, facing Portsmouth Square. Which, by the way, has several seriously disturbed people infesting the shrubbery at all hours. They dominate when the gamblers leave for the night.
I suppose having homeless people sleep outdoors in Chinatown, even if the vast majority of those that actually do so aren't Chinese but white and black crazies, is a convenience for everyone in San Francisco. Because they aren't bothering any of the folks in the shopping areas downtown when they're there, nor befouling doorways in the Financial District.
They are entirely out of sight, and out of mind.
And really, who is complaining?
My favourite alleys are Hang Ah, because during the daytime it is quiet and not particularly skeevy; Spofford and Ross, which are both mixed residential and commercial, plus Wentworth and Becket below Grant Avenue. But absolutely the nicest alleys are Trenton between Jackson and Pacific, and Commercial from Grant down to Leidesdorff.
I note that there are very nice benches on Commercial between Kearny and Sansome, after one enters the Financial District. Obviously, pudgy office workers need to sit down far more than fragile elderly Chinese, even if the only time that they will do so outdoors is during lunch.
You know, real benches in many of the Chinatown alleyways would be very nice. It would allow seniors to spend more time outdoors, and the neighborhood would become so much brighter and more livable.
Yes, I know. Lots of benches in Portsmouth Square.
Did I already mention the disturbed people?
And smoking is not allowed in parks.
Many elderly men smoke.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, August 10, 2015
TAIWAN WHITE JADE BALSAM GOURD
Bitter melon, Chinese sausage, and egg. Quick and easy. Stirfried up with scant oil. Plus toast and tea, it was the dinner of champions.
I find that as I've matured, I prefer simpler things.
台灣白玉苦瓜
Toiwaan baak yuk fu-gwaa
The Taiwan white jade bitter melon is only a little more expensive than the regular ones, but just as tasty. I've only recently started seeing them on Stockton Street, likely they were not available in previous years. On the mainland, whenever they are sold outside of the sub-tropics, they are packed in that rubbery webbing that was developed to protect fruits, because they do bruise a little easy, which is far more noticeable on so pale a vegetable. The best ones have scarcely a hint of green.
As you would with regular balsam gourds, cut them and scoop out pith and seeds, then slice however you wish and put them in salt water to leech out the bitterness, or blanch them briefly in boiling water.
[Many Cantonese restaurants will cook them with black bean sauce, but while that is traditional, it is unnecessary. If you do need that flavour at your meal, do it to chicken. Or turkey. Turkey with black bean sauce is delicious, and that is one of the few good-tasting things you can do to that beastly bird.]
Bitter melons are a vegetable of which I am particularly fond.
It's not only a textural thing, I love their taste.
They are best barely cooked.
And still bitter.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
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==========================================================================
I find that as I've matured, I prefer simpler things.
台灣白玉苦瓜
Toiwaan baak yuk fu-gwaa
The Taiwan white jade bitter melon is only a little more expensive than the regular ones, but just as tasty. I've only recently started seeing them on Stockton Street, likely they were not available in previous years. On the mainland, whenever they are sold outside of the sub-tropics, they are packed in that rubbery webbing that was developed to protect fruits, because they do bruise a little easy, which is far more noticeable on so pale a vegetable. The best ones have scarcely a hint of green.
As you would with regular balsam gourds, cut them and scoop out pith and seeds, then slice however you wish and put them in salt water to leech out the bitterness, or blanch them briefly in boiling water.
[Many Cantonese restaurants will cook them with black bean sauce, but while that is traditional, it is unnecessary. If you do need that flavour at your meal, do it to chicken. Or turkey. Turkey with black bean sauce is delicious, and that is one of the few good-tasting things you can do to that beastly bird.]
Bitter melons are a vegetable of which I am particularly fond.
It's not only a textural thing, I love their taste.
They are best barely cooked.
And still bitter.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
POTHEADS, DAMNED POTHEADS
South African forensic scientists have found traces of cannabis in clay pipes excavated from Shakespeare's garden. This will no doubt fuel certain people in their insistence that marijuana be legalized. "Surely if so great a man as the author of A Midsummer Night's Dream and Measure for Measure derived inspiration from weed", they will say, "it proves that cannabis is a great good that should not be withheld from mankind".
Which, of course, is complete horsepucky.
For validation of my assertion, have a conversation sometime with a pot-head. There is an entire tribe of them along Market Street, and not a genius in the bunch.
The fact that a variety of substances were smoked in Europe centuries ago does not justify their use now, and it should be noted that coca-leaf was also infumed.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge was addicted to opium. More than enough has been written about the deleterious effects of that drug that I need not add one iota to the discourse; the fame of the addict does not detract from the loathsome evil of his habits.
The death sentence for abusers of illegal substances does seem a little harsh. But not entirely berserk. Most consumers of "medical marijuana" are insufferable, and their therapy does not cure them of that condition.
Even caffeine, nicotine, and highly refined sugar are more than most people can handle.
America's war on drugs may indeed by a tragedy of errors, but most rational people would surely support regular public whipping for abusers.
Perhaps coupled with festivals like Outside Lands, and with music by The Grateful Dead in the background.
I for one would heartily approve, and would under those circumstances consider the gathering of so large a number of stoners in one place worthwhile.
I can, in fact, suggest a number of persons to pillory.
Their frequent fractured logic wrote them on my list.
No, I did not seek them out; I prefer to avoid them.
AFTERWORD
Not all of Shakespeare's plays are worth reading. The two mentioned above are laboured and puerile, and his most notorious work, Romeo and Juliet, tells a remarkably dreary tale about an infatuated idiot, a randy thirteen year old virgin with shit for brains, a meddlesome priest, and a drug-induced stupor that goes horribly wrong. It is quite unbearable.
Yes, he wrote some boffo stuff. But he also wrote crap.
The less said about Coleridge, the better.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
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==========================================================================
Which, of course, is complete horsepucky.
For validation of my assertion, have a conversation sometime with a pot-head. There is an entire tribe of them along Market Street, and not a genius in the bunch.
The fact that a variety of substances were smoked in Europe centuries ago does not justify their use now, and it should be noted that coca-leaf was also infumed.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge was addicted to opium. More than enough has been written about the deleterious effects of that drug that I need not add one iota to the discourse; the fame of the addict does not detract from the loathsome evil of his habits.
The death sentence for abusers of illegal substances does seem a little harsh. But not entirely berserk. Most consumers of "medical marijuana" are insufferable, and their therapy does not cure them of that condition.
Even caffeine, nicotine, and highly refined sugar are more than most people can handle.
America's war on drugs may indeed by a tragedy of errors, but most rational people would surely support regular public whipping for abusers.
Perhaps coupled with festivals like Outside Lands, and with music by The Grateful Dead in the background.
I for one would heartily approve, and would under those circumstances consider the gathering of so large a number of stoners in one place worthwhile.
I can, in fact, suggest a number of persons to pillory.
Their frequent fractured logic wrote them on my list.
No, I did not seek them out; I prefer to avoid them.
AFTERWORD
Not all of Shakespeare's plays are worth reading. The two mentioned above are laboured and puerile, and his most notorious work, Romeo and Juliet, tells a remarkably dreary tale about an infatuated idiot, a randy thirteen year old virgin with shit for brains, a meddlesome priest, and a drug-induced stupor that goes horribly wrong. It is quite unbearable.
Yes, he wrote some boffo stuff. But he also wrote crap.
The less said about Coleridge, the better.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, August 09, 2015
MEMORABLE LADIES
Six women should be especially mentioned this past weekend. Because, of course, as a red-blooded male I appreciate them for what they are, and what they bring to the table.
4.
The first four are female pipe-smokers. Three of them acquired brand-new briars, all four chose pipe tobacco, and then they spent a happy hour at a table in the corner enjoying their acquisitions. I asked whether they all lived in the same place, and then suggested that they could start a pipe-club.
One mentioned that their husbands also were smokers......
No, hon, fercrapssakes don't invite the men! Men have this nasty habit of exclaiming "you're doing it all wrong, here, let me show you how...".
For the first several months keep the men out; you don't need that.
I'm quite sure they immediately grasped the concept .
There is no wrong way to smoke a pipe.
It's supposed to be enjoyed.
However you want.
Yeah, they all smoked aromatics. Which I rather disapprove of, but while the actual chemistry of taste is the same in both genders, the subconscious responses to odours do actually differ a bit. Women like certain smells that men don't like, for very similar memory reasons that males have an affection or a heightened reaction to other aromas.
For instance, I love the smell of hot tar, and mild whiffs of gasoline from a pump when someone is filling their tank. Happy memories filled with sunlight. It's keyed into my subconscious.
Do I want my tobacco to reek of either of those?
Gracious no.
Eventually we all build a mental fragrance data base that includes a broader set of references, but it has to start somewhere. Many people start with aromatics. Not all of them continue that way. Some folks eventually veer into Latakia or Virginia territory. Some don't.
There is no target on the horizon, and the terrain is constantly shifting. Tastes change over time, and it will all tie in to memory in any case.
1... 5
The next woman whom I should mention brought pie and vanilla ice-cream for all of us. Plus bonbons. In consequence of which I was high as a kite. Sugar does that. Yesterday's lunch was a dietary disaster, which I thoroughly enjoyed, today I buzzed around like a giddy bee.
Perhaps I should whack myself out on sugar more often.
Don't know. Should probably experiment a bit.
It makes cigar-smokers easier to tolerate.
And I rather like sugar.
+1=6.
The last woman I had NO significant interaction with. She was on the bus yesterday evening, and I studied her with surreptitious glances out of the corner of my eye. Yes, she's cute. And well-within the range of physical attractiveness. But the key elements I most especially noticed were her eyes (intelligent and alive behind her dark-rimmed spectacles), her nose, cheeks, and chin (very nicely formed indeed), her lips (interesting looking and unique, not the standard issue for her ethnicity), and her hands.
I think I like her hands. They taper nicely.
And they are small and cute.
Not frail looking.
Yes, I know absolutely nothing about her. She could be anywhere between late teens and early thirties. And though I took-in her physique, I wasn't looking at her figure well-enough to hazard a guess. It was primarily the face, you see. There were things to read there.
Fascinating things. Very quiet things.
I doubt that she noticed my observation.
I really tried to be discreet about it.
Observational peripherality.
She got off one stop ahead of me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
4.
The first four are female pipe-smokers. Three of them acquired brand-new briars, all four chose pipe tobacco, and then they spent a happy hour at a table in the corner enjoying their acquisitions. I asked whether they all lived in the same place, and then suggested that they could start a pipe-club.
One mentioned that their husbands also were smokers......
No, hon, fercrapssakes don't invite the men! Men have this nasty habit of exclaiming "you're doing it all wrong, here, let me show you how...".
For the first several months keep the men out; you don't need that.
I'm quite sure they immediately grasped the concept .
There is no wrong way to smoke a pipe.
It's supposed to be enjoyed.
However you want.
Yeah, they all smoked aromatics. Which I rather disapprove of, but while the actual chemistry of taste is the same in both genders, the subconscious responses to odours do actually differ a bit. Women like certain smells that men don't like, for very similar memory reasons that males have an affection or a heightened reaction to other aromas.
For instance, I love the smell of hot tar, and mild whiffs of gasoline from a pump when someone is filling their tank. Happy memories filled with sunlight. It's keyed into my subconscious.
Do I want my tobacco to reek of either of those?
Gracious no.
Eventually we all build a mental fragrance data base that includes a broader set of references, but it has to start somewhere. Many people start with aromatics. Not all of them continue that way. Some folks eventually veer into Latakia or Virginia territory. Some don't.
There is no target on the horizon, and the terrain is constantly shifting. Tastes change over time, and it will all tie in to memory in any case.
1... 5
The next woman whom I should mention brought pie and vanilla ice-cream for all of us. Plus bonbons. In consequence of which I was high as a kite. Sugar does that. Yesterday's lunch was a dietary disaster, which I thoroughly enjoyed, today I buzzed around like a giddy bee.
Perhaps I should whack myself out on sugar more often.
Don't know. Should probably experiment a bit.
It makes cigar-smokers easier to tolerate.
And I rather like sugar.
+1=6.
The last woman I had NO significant interaction with. She was on the bus yesterday evening, and I studied her with surreptitious glances out of the corner of my eye. Yes, she's cute. And well-within the range of physical attractiveness. But the key elements I most especially noticed were her eyes (intelligent and alive behind her dark-rimmed spectacles), her nose, cheeks, and chin (very nicely formed indeed), her lips (interesting looking and unique, not the standard issue for her ethnicity), and her hands.
I think I like her hands. They taper nicely.
And they are small and cute.
Not frail looking.
Yes, I know absolutely nothing about her. She could be anywhere between late teens and early thirties. And though I took-in her physique, I wasn't looking at her figure well-enough to hazard a guess. It was primarily the face, you see. There were things to read there.
Fascinating things. Very quiet things.
I doubt that she noticed my observation.
I really tried to be discreet about it.
Observational peripherality.
She got off one stop ahead of me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A JESUS MEME FOR SUNDAY
The picture below moves me. I actually want to make all kinds of mean-spirited comments about Christians and brain-dead Baptists -- who are not Christians despite their assertions otherwise, just look at their batshit ideology -- but I just can't do it. It's a very tender picture.
It's sort of Christian. Which, as you know, gives me the willies. Given what American believers are like. Screamingly toxic.
All soft and unforgiving and crap.
Twisted loopy literalists.
They're special.
This sweet image comes from the internet.
Will no one think about the lizards?!?
Doesn't that dinosaur look sad?
I think it's very touching.
Poor poor baby.
==========================================================================
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==========================================================================
It's sort of Christian. Which, as you know, gives me the willies. Given what American believers are like. Screamingly toxic.
All soft and unforgiving and crap.
Twisted loopy literalists.
They're special.
This sweet image comes from the internet.
Will no one think about the lizards?!?
Doesn't that dinosaur look sad?
I think it's very touching.
Poor poor baby.
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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,...
