Chinese people hate rain nearly as much as pipe smokers. That is to say, pipe smokers who really thought it wasn't going to rain, and left the house without an umbrella, but with two fine briars and a pouch of Virginia tobacco.
It sprinkled the barest little bit yesterday.
A wee sprinkle, nothing more.
When I stepped outside after lunch at Little Paris, weird wet crap was falling from the sky. Not much, but enough to convince me that lighting up my already filled pipe at that point and in so exposed a place was a bad idea. So I hurried over to the awning over the front of Dol Ho, because they were already closed, and consequently there would be no one connected with their business to object to my smoking out front.
[Dol Ho ("much good") is a dim sum restaurant. Breakfast, brunch.]
There were, however, three elderly women. Who looked remarkably sour when I arrived. They thought they had that broad spread of dry zone entirely to themselves.
I considerately positioned myself as far out into the weather as possible, and at a point where the smoke would blow away from them.
Grumble grumble grumble keui sik yin ge.
Grumble grumble grumble kwailo.
Grumble grumble, gam chau.
Grumble grumble. M-ho.
Again, the breeze was blowing the smoke AWAY from them. And I was at least fifteen feet away from the nearest dessicated old wreck.
The reason why pipe smokers do not like rain when they lack umbrellas is that rain drops leave speckles on the stem of a pipe, and also affect the finish of the wood. We care about our pipes, and do not wish them damaged by weird wet crap falling from the sky. We do not like that.
For ourselves, we are far less concerned.
A bit of rain never hurt anybody.
Except for Chinese people.
That was an extremely enjoyable smoke. Nearly empty streets, at an hour when there should have been mobs of people thronging all over Stockton and Pacific. Nearby bakeries must have been doing a booming business. Desperate Chinese people fleeing the frightening wetness.
The soft murmur of grumbling wreckage behind me.
Altogether peaceful and other-worldly.
After finishing, I went out into the now severely lessening bluster. Which, bear in mind, had been the lightest and wispiest of rains, barely even dampening the pavement.
There was a long-haired cat outside of one of the stores on Stockton Street, who instinctively understood that some folks need to commune with animals.
Either that, or working for a Chinese shopkeeper, she feels attention-starved. The Chinese are not very demonstrative, except when they're vocalizing sotto voce about white people smoking where they want to shelter from the ten drops of wet that might get their hair frizzy.
It's a very sweet cat. Very social and affectionate.
Her owners must be doing something right.
The cat isn't spooked by people.
Ten solid minutes of petting.
I'll have to remember that store and start buying stuff there. Judging by the cat, they are good people.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
TWIRLING FURRY PERVERT
What does the severely love-starved mature badger do to keep himself occupied, in the absence of a suitable female badger with whom to discuss Proust, Hegel, Kant, Kierkegaard, and post-modernism? How does he distract himself from man's immense solitude in a deep and vast universe of existential loneliness?
He smokes his pipe, and obsessively reads Wikipedia entries. He plays little mind games with himself, like trying to memorize all the Chinese characters that use a phonetic based on liquid characteristics or climactic conditions. He imagines various juxtaposed colours and textures.
He listens to civil war music on youtube, and he concocts tobacco blends that have never seen the light of day.
Deservedly so.
And he prepares himself scrumptious little feasts. In between going down to Chinatown for a steaming cup of milk-tea (Hong Kong style). Where he might oogle pretty girlies while thoughtfully smoking his pipe after his snackipoo and his nice warm beverage.
Before buying ingredients for the feast that will follow.
Often at or around ten o'clock at night.
When he is hungry.
* * * * *
Red curry braised noodles with bittermelon and diverse bits of oink. Italian sausage in a spicy cream sauce over Guan Miao wheat noodles. Oven-roasted potato slices with cumin, cilantro, chopped smoky bacon, dressed with a touch of cayenne béchamel. A salad Niçoise, with spicy fingerlings and smoked salmon, in lieu of the usual.
Perhaps another smoke. Let's see, something dark and flaky with Perique?
If so, I shall need another cup of tea. Or coffee.
Or coffee and tea mixed.
Then to dreamily contemplate the existence of nipple, before obsessively reading about Carolingian history on the internet.
He'll also remember the very fine collar bones he saw recently, before going out for a pack of crinkle chips shortly after midnight.
Bright laughing feminine eyes, wreathed in trails of fragrant smoke from an Illusione cigar, which is full-bodied enough for a man but smooth enough for a woman.
* * * * *
Did I mention nipple? I meant garlic. Nice plump cloves of fresh garlic, juicy and fragrant. And young crunchy ginger, sweet and tinged with pink.
The badger goes into the kitchen, and heats up some superior stock. When it boils, he dumps in eight pork wontons, and a handful of coarsely ripped little white cabbages, whose crispy stems and emerald leaves will present a brilliant contrast with the floating cloud dumplings. Squeeze of lime, a tablespoon of minced ginger, and a brisk dash of soy sauce.
When it is done, he prepares a little saucer of chili paste.
Then retires to his cane chair and has a meal.
It is utterly delicious. Healthy, too.
Disturbingly sensuous.
I think I need to wander around the neighborhood with a pipe now.
While trying not to think of lady badgers. Because doing so too much is not good for one's equilibrium.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
He smokes his pipe, and obsessively reads Wikipedia entries. He plays little mind games with himself, like trying to memorize all the Chinese characters that use a phonetic based on liquid characteristics or climactic conditions. He imagines various juxtaposed colours and textures.
He listens to civil war music on youtube, and he concocts tobacco blends that have never seen the light of day.
Deservedly so.
And he prepares himself scrumptious little feasts. In between going down to Chinatown for a steaming cup of milk-tea (Hong Kong style). Where he might oogle pretty girlies while thoughtfully smoking his pipe after his snackipoo and his nice warm beverage.
Before buying ingredients for the feast that will follow.
Often at or around ten o'clock at night.
When he is hungry.
* * * * *
Red curry braised noodles with bittermelon and diverse bits of oink. Italian sausage in a spicy cream sauce over Guan Miao wheat noodles. Oven-roasted potato slices with cumin, cilantro, chopped smoky bacon, dressed with a touch of cayenne béchamel. A salad Niçoise, with spicy fingerlings and smoked salmon, in lieu of the usual.
Perhaps another smoke. Let's see, something dark and flaky with Perique?
If so, I shall need another cup of tea. Or coffee.
Or coffee and tea mixed.
Then to dreamily contemplate the existence of nipple, before obsessively reading about Carolingian history on the internet.
He'll also remember the very fine collar bones he saw recently, before going out for a pack of crinkle chips shortly after midnight.
Bright laughing feminine eyes, wreathed in trails of fragrant smoke from an Illusione cigar, which is full-bodied enough for a man but smooth enough for a woman.
* * * * *
Did I mention nipple? I meant garlic. Nice plump cloves of fresh garlic, juicy and fragrant. And young crunchy ginger, sweet and tinged with pink.
The badger goes into the kitchen, and heats up some superior stock. When it boils, he dumps in eight pork wontons, and a handful of coarsely ripped little white cabbages, whose crispy stems and emerald leaves will present a brilliant contrast with the floating cloud dumplings. Squeeze of lime, a tablespoon of minced ginger, and a brisk dash of soy sauce.
When it is done, he prepares a little saucer of chili paste.
Then retires to his cane chair and has a meal.
It is utterly delicious. Healthy, too.
Disturbingly sensuous.
I think I need to wander around the neighborhood with a pipe now.
While trying not to think of lady badgers. Because doing so too much is not good for one's equilibrium.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DIGITAL CLOCKS FINALLY REACH IRVING, TEXAS
It's really quite charming to realize that there are some parts of this great country where the modern age has been slow to penetrate. So slow, in fact, that much that we take for granted in our arrogantly superior coastal urban crust is completely unrecognizable.
Like technology.
Places where people still rub two sticks together to make fire. Or, in the mistaken belief that somehow it matters, rub two sticks together to tell time.
Places like Irving, Texas.
AHMED MAKES A CLOCK
In an effort to speed the march of progress, Ahmed Mohamed, a fourteen-year old highschool student, built himself a digital clock. Justifiably rather tickled with his own cleverness -- as well he should be, because lord knows most of us couldn't build a digital pair of shoes, let alone a digital clock -- he took the device to school.
And showed it to people who only understand analog.
Not digital.
[For the benefit of folks who were born during the modern age, I drew a quick illustration of an analog device. The long black line points to the top of the hour, the shorter one at the sequential number of the hour. In this illustration, the clock tells you that it is two o'clock. Hope this helps.]
Naturally, they took one look at all the complicated doohicky inside, and at Ahmed's guilty brown Muslim face, and blew a gasket.
It's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, IT'S A BOMB!
You will note that in this photo, Ahmed looks remarkably like a Mexican. But, as is well known, Mexicans with Spanish names are mostly rapists and criminals, whereas Mexicans with unpronounceable names are all Meslums.
[Simple rule of thumb: Spanish name = rape and cocaine party packs. Unpronounceable name = Meslum, and a bomb.]
According to the police in Irving, Texas, the device is not a bomb (they figured that out), but a 'hoax bomb'. Real bombs can explode.
CITE:
Ahmed Mohamed — who makes his own radios and repairs his own go-kart — hoped to impress his teachers when he brought a homemade clock to MacArthur High on Monday.
Instead, the school phoned police about Ahmed’s circuit-stuffed pencil case.
END CITE
[SOURCE: No charges against Ahmed, and race played no role.]
FURTHER CITE:
Update at 11:20 a.m. Wednesday: At a press conference this morning, Irving Police Chief Larry Boyd said Ahmed Mohamed was arrested for bringing "a hoax bomb" to school -- and not a clock, as Mohamed said he repeatedly told his teachers.
END CITE
Attentive readers interested in minutiae may remember Irving, Texas, as the soapbox for fractious anti-Muslim activist Beth Van Duyne, who may be a distant relative of mine, as many Americans with unpronounceable Dutch names are.
SEND THEM NOTHING
Now, a sarcastic evil person who wanted to drive the point home to folks in Irving, Texas, that fourteen-year old technologists are largely an innocent force for good, might strongly suggest sending mayor Beth Van Duyne, the Irving Police Department, and the principal of MacArthur High more digital clocks, in hopes that frequent exposure would lessen their fear and hysteria, and slowly acclimatize them to the modern age.
But I shall not do that.
Do not send them anything!
Because if you do, they will sic the FBI on you lickety split, and there will be warrants filed with the Texas Rangers, who will arrest you the moment you set foot in Texas.
Which would be bad, because eventually everybody visits Texas.
So I repeat: do NOT send them a thing!
Ms. Beth Van Duyne, City Hall
825 West Irving Boulevard
Irving, TX 75060
Mr. Larry Boyd, Irving Police Department
305 North O'Connor Road
Irving, TX 75061
Mr. Daniel Cummings, MacArthur High School
3700 North MacArthur Boulevard
Irving, TX 75062
Please note that this data is provided purely for informational purposes.
I am not a sarcastic or evil person.
My name is pronounceable.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Like technology.
Places where people still rub two sticks together to make fire. Or, in the mistaken belief that somehow it matters, rub two sticks together to tell time.
Places like Irving, Texas.
AHMED MAKES A CLOCK
In an effort to speed the march of progress, Ahmed Mohamed, a fourteen-year old highschool student, built himself a digital clock. Justifiably rather tickled with his own cleverness -- as well he should be, because lord knows most of us couldn't build a digital pair of shoes, let alone a digital clock -- he took the device to school.
And showed it to people who only understand analog.
Not digital.
[For the benefit of folks who were born during the modern age, I drew a quick illustration of an analog device. The long black line points to the top of the hour, the shorter one at the sequential number of the hour. In this illustration, the clock tells you that it is two o'clock. Hope this helps.]
Naturally, they took one look at all the complicated doohicky inside, and at Ahmed's guilty brown Muslim face, and blew a gasket.
[Photo from Geekdad, who lifted it from Ahmed's Twitter Stream.]
It's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, IT'S A BOMB!
You will note that in this photo, Ahmed looks remarkably like a Mexican. But, as is well known, Mexicans with Spanish names are mostly rapists and criminals, whereas Mexicans with unpronounceable names are all Meslums.
[Simple rule of thumb: Spanish name = rape and cocaine party packs. Unpronounceable name = Meslum, and a bomb.]
According to the police in Irving, Texas, the device is not a bomb (they figured that out), but a 'hoax bomb'. Real bombs can explode.
CITE:
Ahmed Mohamed — who makes his own radios and repairs his own go-kart — hoped to impress his teachers when he brought a homemade clock to MacArthur High on Monday.
Instead, the school phoned police about Ahmed’s circuit-stuffed pencil case.
END CITE
[SOURCE: No charges against Ahmed, and race played no role.]
FURTHER CITE:
Update at 11:20 a.m. Wednesday: At a press conference this morning, Irving Police Chief Larry Boyd said Ahmed Mohamed was arrested for bringing "a hoax bomb" to school -- and not a clock, as Mohamed said he repeatedly told his teachers.
END CITE
Attentive readers interested in minutiae may remember Irving, Texas, as the soapbox for fractious anti-Muslim activist Beth Van Duyne, who may be a distant relative of mine, as many Americans with unpronounceable Dutch names are.
SEND THEM NOTHING
Now, a sarcastic evil person who wanted to drive the point home to folks in Irving, Texas, that fourteen-year old technologists are largely an innocent force for good, might strongly suggest sending mayor Beth Van Duyne, the Irving Police Department, and the principal of MacArthur High more digital clocks, in hopes that frequent exposure would lessen their fear and hysteria, and slowly acclimatize them to the modern age.
But I shall not do that.
Do not send them anything!
Because if you do, they will sic the FBI on you lickety split, and there will be warrants filed with the Texas Rangers, who will arrest you the moment you set foot in Texas.
Which would be bad, because eventually everybody visits Texas.
So I repeat: do NOT send them a thing!
Ms. Beth Van Duyne, City Hall
825 West Irving Boulevard
Irving, TX 75060
Mr. Larry Boyd, Irving Police Department
305 North O'Connor Road
Irving, TX 75061
Mr. Daniel Cummings, MacArthur High School
3700 North MacArthur Boulevard
Irving, TX 75062
Please note that this data is provided purely for informational purposes.
I am not a sarcastic or evil person.
My name is pronounceable.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
ROASTED DUCK TAKEOUT IN SAN FRANCISCO
If you're like me, you do not want anyone to observe you eating roast duck. It is a messy business, and you will want to suck on the bones, get the grease all over your face, and then lick your fingers. And duck, of course, is not a large animal. So it takes more tongue motion and picky treatment than an elephant. Which has humongous bones.
Fortunately, there are good places to pick up roast duck in Chinatown. Yes, also in "New Chinatown", but not nearly as good as "Real Chinatown".
New Chinatown is far too clean and hoity toity.
We are not hoity toity in this part of SF.
Good heavens, anything but.
My favourite place is right on Stockton Street, between Washington and Jackson. It's small, and the staff doesn't speak overmuch English.
Which I think is a very good thing.
Less competition for me.
From white folks.
Okay, sorry, I'm a bit of a snob, and I like throwing around that I can speak more than enough Cantonese to get whatever I want at a food place in Chinatown, and you probably can't.
Consider learning Cantonese.
It's well worth it.
Anyhow.
新凱豐燒臘店
SAN HOI FUNG SIU LAAP DIM
GOURMET DELIGHT BARBECUE
1045 Stockton Street, San Francisco, CA 94108.
415-392-3288
["New triumphant surfeit roast meats shop"]
This is my favourite duck place. I love buying an entire bird, then going home and devouring it in a massively messy orgy of sweet savoury enjoyment. Just spread the newspapers around, and start stuffing.
Maybe with crusty sourdough, because I'm too lazy to cook rice.
And man, do I love stuffing myself on Donald.
And his little nephews.
Running close seconds are the following three places, also in Chinatown.
新月燒臘小館
SAN YUE SIU LAAP SIU GWUN
NEW MOON RESTAURANT
1247 Stockton Street, San Francisco, CA 94133.
415-434-1128
["New moon roast meats small establishment"]
This is where I often go to have roast duck over rice. It's small, the food is excellent, and the atmosphere speaks to me, because it has a comfortable gemütlich feel to it. Hometown, our kind of place, good folks.
港新寶燒腊小食
GONG SAN PO SIU LAAP SIU SIK
KAM PO (H.K.) K. - KAM PO KITCHEN
801 Broadway, San Francisco, CA 94133.
415-982-3516
["Harbour new treasure roast meats eatery"]
Bright and clean, spacious, and efficient.
And some damned fine duck.
文仔記燒臘茶餐廳
MAN CHAI KEI SIU LAAP CHA CHAN TENG
YEE'S RESTAURANT
1131 Grant Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94133.
415-576-1818
["Manny's roast meats and tea restaurant"]
My least favourite place for duck, because I go there mostly for the roast goose (燒鵝 'siu ngo'). Which very few other restaurants do. Indeed, I also love roast goose. They list lots of food on the wall, of which the most unusual is the braised fish called Stone Dog Duke (石狗公 'sek kau gung'). It is an ugly specimen.
And only in Chinese, because white people can't eat.
They also have fresh clams (蜆 'hin'), giant prawns (大蝦 'taai haa'), crabs (蟹 'haai'), and lobster (龍蝦 'lung haa'). Plus frog (田雞 'tin kai') and paddy snails (田螺 'tin lo').
Please go to all of them.
And learn to speak.
Be happy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
New Chinatown is far too clean and hoity toity.
We are not hoity toity in this part of SF.
Good heavens, anything but.
My favourite place is right on Stockton Street, between Washington and Jackson. It's small, and the staff doesn't speak overmuch English.
Which I think is a very good thing.
Less competition for me.
From white folks.
Okay, sorry, I'm a bit of a snob, and I like throwing around that I can speak more than enough Cantonese to get whatever I want at a food place in Chinatown, and you probably can't.
Consider learning Cantonese.
It's well worth it.
Anyhow.
新凱豐燒臘店
SAN HOI FUNG SIU LAAP DIM
GOURMET DELIGHT BARBECUE
1045 Stockton Street, San Francisco, CA 94108.
415-392-3288
["New triumphant surfeit roast meats shop"]
This is my favourite duck place. I love buying an entire bird, then going home and devouring it in a massively messy orgy of sweet savoury enjoyment. Just spread the newspapers around, and start stuffing.
Maybe with crusty sourdough, because I'm too lazy to cook rice.
And man, do I love stuffing myself on Donald.
And his little nephews.
Running close seconds are the following three places, also in Chinatown.
新月燒臘小館
SAN YUE SIU LAAP SIU GWUN
NEW MOON RESTAURANT
1247 Stockton Street, San Francisco, CA 94133.
415-434-1128
["New moon roast meats small establishment"]
This is where I often go to have roast duck over rice. It's small, the food is excellent, and the atmosphere speaks to me, because it has a comfortable gemütlich feel to it. Hometown, our kind of place, good folks.
港新寶燒腊小食
GONG SAN PO SIU LAAP SIU SIK
KAM PO (H.K.) K. - KAM PO KITCHEN
801 Broadway, San Francisco, CA 94133.
415-982-3516
["Harbour new treasure roast meats eatery"]
Bright and clean, spacious, and efficient.
And some damned fine duck.
文仔記燒臘茶餐廳
MAN CHAI KEI SIU LAAP CHA CHAN TENG
YEE'S RESTAURANT
1131 Grant Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94133.
415-576-1818
["Manny's roast meats and tea restaurant"]
My least favourite place for duck, because I go there mostly for the roast goose (燒鵝 'siu ngo'). Which very few other restaurants do. Indeed, I also love roast goose. They list lots of food on the wall, of which the most unusual is the braised fish called Stone Dog Duke (石狗公 'sek kau gung'). It is an ugly specimen.
And only in Chinese, because white people can't eat.
They also have fresh clams (蜆 'hin'), giant prawns (大蝦 'taai haa'), crabs (蟹 'haai'), and lobster (龍蝦 'lung haa'). Plus frog (田雞 'tin kai') and paddy snails (田螺 'tin lo').
Please go to all of them.
And learn to speak.
Be happy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
INDIRA'S NECKLACE
The more I know about India, the more I'm convinced I should never visit. It's rather like our own Deep South except with more interesting food; the same corrupt politicians, corrupt policemen, and brutal capitalists.
Yes, under normal circumstances, probably perfectly safe.
Unless you're a woman, of course.
Or have a "mouth".
My mouth has, on occasion, gotten me into trouble. I'm older and wiser now, and have over the years learned to be far more diplomatic.
But sometimes stuff comes out that, though I stand by it, would probably have been better not said.
Earlier this morning I started rereading material on the internet about Sajjan Kumar and Jagdish Tytler, and their personal involvement in the anti-Sikh riots of 1984. You might recall that two soldiers shot Indira Gandhi full of holes in October of that year for ordering the destruction of the central shrine of the Sikhs earlier that year?
[Actually, the entire Gandhi family should have been shot, given their corruption, opportunism, and overweening arrogance, during their entire history as operators and brutalists since Nehru, but no matter. Only the Italian is still alive from that generation.]
Good Hindus of all castes, including Christian, responded by going on a week-long rampage, killing between three and twenty thousand people, targeting their victims either by appearance, or by consulting voter lists provided by the Congress party for that express purpose.
The facts of these matters are too nauseating to detail here, but what is truly staggering is that three decades after the brutal killing of several thousand Sikhs by Congress Party mobs, very few people have been punished, and no significant Congress bigwigs have done any time at all. They always manage to get charges dropped, evidence covered up, cases thrown out, and witnesses silenced.
"WHEN A BIG TREE FALLS, THE EARTH SHAKES"
Sajjan Kumar and Jagdish Tytler both found that their careers were fast-tracked after organizing the mobs and encouraging the mayhem. They are just two examples; many other Congress politicians furthered their prospects by complicity, as did members of the Delhi police.
None have ever been punished.
One salient fact which is fascinating, is that 'necklacing' appears from all accounts to have been invented by stalwart Congress-party Indians.
The practice, which later gained fame as an African National Congress political tactic, consists of filling a tire with gasoline and placing it around the neck of the victim.
Often while an audience of approving activists looks on.
India in 1984. Africa in 1985.
[And Haiti by 1986.]
It's a toss-up whether Sajjan Kumar or Jagdish Tytler was the first man to suggest it. Maybe a more lowly Congress supporter was "inspired".
They certainly provided the fuel, however.
Plus detailed lists of targets.
Oh by the way: they're still very important people in Delhi, welcomed by the finest establishments, and invited to society events.
Their presence lightens up the gathering.
Very popular gentlemen.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yes, under normal circumstances, probably perfectly safe.
Unless you're a woman, of course.
Or have a "mouth".
My mouth has, on occasion, gotten me into trouble. I'm older and wiser now, and have over the years learned to be far more diplomatic.
But sometimes stuff comes out that, though I stand by it, would probably have been better not said.
Earlier this morning I started rereading material on the internet about Sajjan Kumar and Jagdish Tytler, and their personal involvement in the anti-Sikh riots of 1984. You might recall that two soldiers shot Indira Gandhi full of holes in October of that year for ordering the destruction of the central shrine of the Sikhs earlier that year?
[Actually, the entire Gandhi family should have been shot, given their corruption, opportunism, and overweening arrogance, during their entire history as operators and brutalists since Nehru, but no matter. Only the Italian is still alive from that generation.]
Good Hindus of all castes, including Christian, responded by going on a week-long rampage, killing between three and twenty thousand people, targeting their victims either by appearance, or by consulting voter lists provided by the Congress party for that express purpose.
The facts of these matters are too nauseating to detail here, but what is truly staggering is that three decades after the brutal killing of several thousand Sikhs by Congress Party mobs, very few people have been punished, and no significant Congress bigwigs have done any time at all. They always manage to get charges dropped, evidence covered up, cases thrown out, and witnesses silenced.
"WHEN A BIG TREE FALLS, THE EARTH SHAKES"
Sajjan Kumar and Jagdish Tytler both found that their careers were fast-tracked after organizing the mobs and encouraging the mayhem. They are just two examples; many other Congress politicians furthered their prospects by complicity, as did members of the Delhi police.
None have ever been punished.
One salient fact which is fascinating, is that 'necklacing' appears from all accounts to have been invented by stalwart Congress-party Indians.
The practice, which later gained fame as an African National Congress political tactic, consists of filling a tire with gasoline and placing it around the neck of the victim.
Often while an audience of approving activists looks on.
India in 1984. Africa in 1985.
[And Haiti by 1986.]
It's a toss-up whether Sajjan Kumar or Jagdish Tytler was the first man to suggest it. Maybe a more lowly Congress supporter was "inspired".
They certainly provided the fuel, however.
Plus detailed lists of targets.
Oh by the way: they're still very important people in Delhi, welcomed by the finest establishments, and invited to society events.
Their presence lightens up the gathering.
Very popular gentlemen.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, September 14, 2015
AND, SPEAKING OF AMPHIBIANS...
My ex is in the other room sleeping with a frog. The frog in question is minty green, and looks squeezable. He is a recent arrival in this household, and has as yet not been insulted by any of the other stuffed creatures, such as the one-legged monkey, the blue-faced sheep, or the little black cat, who believes herself to be worthy of a great deal more appreciation than any of the other silly animals are giving her.
My ex went to bed early today. She was already there when I came in just before eight o'clock. Consequently it has been a very quiet evening.
Yes, she has her own room. She did even before we broke up.
That is one of the reasons why we still live together.
And we still like each other as co-conspirators.
As I do not have a love interest, it works.
Because she and I have entirely different schedules, it will probably also work if there is a new love interest. But it could not work if I had short-term affairs.
One of my frequent statements is that "life is too short to drink Starbucks", by which I mean that if you cannot have exactly what you want, you should not settle for poor substitutes.
Drink Peets coffee if you need a big-ass hot drink.
Or make your own, exactly as you want it.
Don't just settle for Starbucks.
It's miserable muck.
It's also a question of priorities and what's within reach.
I haven't had Coors, Budweiser, Michelob, or Miller since 1985.
Nor have I drunk a Starbucks beverage since that time either.
No McDonalds in several years, not a single bite of fast-food burgers in over ten years, no sex in over five, no Bourbon in three, pizza in several weeks, a burrito in the past fortnight, hot sauce in twenty four hours, cookies in twenty .....
No durian since 1997.
Haven't had hot sauce since this morning, enjoyed a pipe since early evening, or drunk coffee in an hour and a half.
Obviously, some of those things are not on my list of 'must-haves', but instead occupy a place of honour on a rather long list of 'must-have-nots'. Coors and Budweiser, McDonalds, and Starbucks, for instance. Breakfast cereal is also on that list; haven't touched it in two decades.
Hamburgers have not been part of the programme since 2004 when the American beef industry was caught lying about certain practices.
Bourbon just doesn't suit me.
Everything else is an almost essential part of life.
The concept of dating a woman is often in the forefront of my consciousness, but unfortunately most women in San Francisco are rather like breakfast cereal, being bland except for soggy crunchy bits, and verging on indigestible.
[My ex eats breakfast cereal, and there are always BIG boxes, four or five different types, on top of the refrigerator. Which is inexplicable. Breakfast cereal is kinda nasty. But I have never held it against her. Tastes differ. Which they should. People are not all alike, our divergences make things interesting.]
I am looking for a woman who is more like a slice of pizza late at night; warm, charming, and just oozing goodness.
Necessary correction: When I said that I had not had hotsauce in 24 hours, it was ten minutes ago. I have since rectified that with a single-serving microwavable quiche. I also dabbed a bit of pickle relish on it.
Sometimes all a man needs is pickle relish.
And hot sauce.
I am manfully avoiding the bag of cookies that sits temptingly on the table between her computer and mine. Reason being that I know she'll want to finish them tomorrow morning when she gets up. She'll see the bag tempting her, and take one. Then another. Then the remaining two.
I'm not working tomorrow, so she deserves them.
Always be considerate of people who hug frogs.
Such individuals deserve our kindness.
A good woman needs cookies.
And stuffed creatures.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
My ex went to bed early today. She was already there when I came in just before eight o'clock. Consequently it has been a very quiet evening.
Yes, she has her own room. She did even before we broke up.
That is one of the reasons why we still live together.
And we still like each other as co-conspirators.
As I do not have a love interest, it works.
Because she and I have entirely different schedules, it will probably also work if there is a new love interest. But it could not work if I had short-term affairs.
One of my frequent statements is that "life is too short to drink Starbucks", by which I mean that if you cannot have exactly what you want, you should not settle for poor substitutes.
Drink Peets coffee if you need a big-ass hot drink.
Or make your own, exactly as you want it.
Don't just settle for Starbucks.
It's miserable muck.
It's also a question of priorities and what's within reach.
I haven't had Coors, Budweiser, Michelob, or Miller since 1985.
Nor have I drunk a Starbucks beverage since that time either.
No McDonalds in several years, not a single bite of fast-food burgers in over ten years, no sex in over five, no Bourbon in three, pizza in several weeks, a burrito in the past fortnight, hot sauce in twenty four hours, cookies in twenty .....
No durian since 1997.
Haven't had hot sauce since this morning, enjoyed a pipe since early evening, or drunk coffee in an hour and a half.
Obviously, some of those things are not on my list of 'must-haves', but instead occupy a place of honour on a rather long list of 'must-have-nots'. Coors and Budweiser, McDonalds, and Starbucks, for instance. Breakfast cereal is also on that list; haven't touched it in two decades.
Hamburgers have not been part of the programme since 2004 when the American beef industry was caught lying about certain practices.
Bourbon just doesn't suit me.
Everything else is an almost essential part of life.
The concept of dating a woman is often in the forefront of my consciousness, but unfortunately most women in San Francisco are rather like breakfast cereal, being bland except for soggy crunchy bits, and verging on indigestible.
[My ex eats breakfast cereal, and there are always BIG boxes, four or five different types, on top of the refrigerator. Which is inexplicable. Breakfast cereal is kinda nasty. But I have never held it against her. Tastes differ. Which they should. People are not all alike, our divergences make things interesting.]
I am looking for a woman who is more like a slice of pizza late at night; warm, charming, and just oozing goodness.
Necessary correction: When I said that I had not had hotsauce in 24 hours, it was ten minutes ago. I have since rectified that with a single-serving microwavable quiche. I also dabbed a bit of pickle relish on it.
Sometimes all a man needs is pickle relish.
And hot sauce.
I am manfully avoiding the bag of cookies that sits temptingly on the table between her computer and mine. Reason being that I know she'll want to finish them tomorrow morning when she gets up. She'll see the bag tempting her, and take one. Then another. Then the remaining two.
I'm not working tomorrow, so she deserves them.
Always be considerate of people who hug frogs.
Such individuals deserve our kindness.
A good woman needs cookies.
And stuffed creatures.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, September 13, 2015
YES YOU MAY SMELL MY FINGERS
Recent adventures in the tobacco trade have left me with only one conclusion. Two. Actually, two conclusions.
I am a failure.
And on the other hand, I am also a success.
THE FAILURE
Alas, the club blend is off the table at present, because what was once one of my favourite small tobacco companies has in the last two years been chained by new corporate linkages, and is no longer the same friendly family run enterprise it used to be. Plus people have been put in place to interfere and throw stones.
I had hoped to get a blend I devised years ago produced by them, and the local pipe-club was already set to trumpet "our achievement" to all and sundry, as well as make suitable noise, but having been presented with only the possibility that it would be a one time production run, not available for retail, just shipped to us after payment for us to Gollum-like gloat over ("my precious, my precious"), I decided that they weren't suitable for this project -- or this project was not suitable for them -- and I thanked their people for all their efforts (hmmph!), and ended the discussion.
So for the foreseeable future, there will be no club blend.
I have failed, I have nothing to offer the boys.
I am disappointed in that company.
As well as myself.
THE SUCCESS
Back in May I started working with several flue-cured blending tobaccos, and after very pleasing results with three Virginias and some Turkish two months ago, today I concocted a blend containing two Virginias, Turkish, and Burley. The first bowls were very rewarding, and it smells quite heavenly. Quite possibly it might need no tweaking whatsoever.
It's far too early to tell for certain, though. I shall have to wait a few weeks for everything to stabilize, and for numerous trial smokes to tell me whether it has just the right balance. Patience is required.
In the meantime I'm smelling my finger tips.
Dang man, this is jes' wunnerful!
An ancient fragrance!
Each experimental pipe blend is naturally related to several potential further blends. How it smokes and smells will show one over time what went right, or in what direction to go.
The key test is always whether one makes it again.
But I think this one might be perfect.
I may need pom poms.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And on the other hand, I am also a success.
THE FAILURE
Alas, the club blend is off the table at present, because what was once one of my favourite small tobacco companies has in the last two years been chained by new corporate linkages, and is no longer the same friendly family run enterprise it used to be. Plus people have been put in place to interfere and throw stones.
I had hoped to get a blend I devised years ago produced by them, and the local pipe-club was already set to trumpet "our achievement" to all and sundry, as well as make suitable noise, but having been presented with only the possibility that it would be a one time production run, not available for retail, just shipped to us after payment for us to Gollum-like gloat over ("my precious, my precious"), I decided that they weren't suitable for this project -- or this project was not suitable for them -- and I thanked their people for all their efforts (hmmph!), and ended the discussion.
So for the foreseeable future, there will be no club blend.
I have failed, I have nothing to offer the boys.
I am disappointed in that company.
As well as myself.
THE SUCCESS
Back in May I started working with several flue-cured blending tobaccos, and after very pleasing results with three Virginias and some Turkish two months ago, today I concocted a blend containing two Virginias, Turkish, and Burley. The first bowls were very rewarding, and it smells quite heavenly. Quite possibly it might need no tweaking whatsoever.
It's far too early to tell for certain, though. I shall have to wait a few weeks for everything to stabilize, and for numerous trial smokes to tell me whether it has just the right balance. Patience is required.
In the meantime I'm smelling my finger tips.
Dang man, this is jes' wunnerful!
An ancient fragrance!
Each experimental pipe blend is naturally related to several potential further blends. How it smokes and smells will show one over time what went right, or in what direction to go.
The key test is always whether one makes it again.
But I think this one might be perfect.
I may need pom poms.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
INAUGURAL PARADE PRACTICE
It seems like Donald Trump, whose only military experience is several deferments and abusing the Mexicans who work for him, is keen to declare war on the world. When he becomes president. As indeed he might, given that so many Republicans think that he's the bees' knees and the cats' miao.
Doesn't matter against whom, as everyone knows that war is good for business. And The Donald is all about business.
We need business in this country. We've got nothing else to live for.
So I expect the drumbeat to increase the closer we get.
To inaugurating the craziest president ever.
Everyone likes a parade, right?
This might be one.
IN CLOSE ORDER!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wNf0QT9r97I.]
They're strong, they're resolute. They're geese.
Plus organized, and therefore dangerous.
They'll kill you in a heartbeat.
Republican voters.
Still over a year to go before the election. There will be much posturing between now and then. This promises to be the most exciting presidential race in my life-time.
Remember to eat all the Oreos you can, while you still can. The Donald hates Oreos, and may make them illegal when he becomes president.
Before declaring war on Mexico.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Doesn't matter against whom, as everyone knows that war is good for business. And The Donald is all about business.
We need business in this country. We've got nothing else to live for.
So I expect the drumbeat to increase the closer we get.
To inaugurating the craziest president ever.
Everyone likes a parade, right?
This might be one.
IN CLOSE ORDER!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wNf0QT9r97I.]
They're strong, they're resolute. They're geese.
Plus organized, and therefore dangerous.
They'll kill you in a heartbeat.
Republican voters.
Still over a year to go before the election. There will be much posturing between now and then. This promises to be the most exciting presidential race in my life-time.
Remember to eat all the Oreos you can, while you still can. The Donald hates Oreos, and may make them illegal when he becomes president.
Before declaring war on Mexico.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, September 12, 2015
VALKENSWAARD IN PREVIOUS TIMES
The southern part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands fades from coastal or estuarine swampland in the west to gently rolling countryside on the way to Germany, along the way displaying peat bog, scrub and wooded stretches, expanses of farmland, and small towns whose church spires are visible afar. This is the often beautiful and sometimes depressing scenery of Vincent Van Gogh, and earlier, Brueghel.
Here lie the landscapes that inspire, and will cause obsession.
They form and malform the visual imagination.
Malleable points of reference.
Dreams.
And madness.
A family from California once headed in this direction, and settled down.
It appeared to be a good idea at the time.
TENANT FARMERS, SAND, AND FALCONRY
Valkenswaard, which lies in the east of this area, is equidistant from Eindhoven to the north and the Belgian border southwards. Pine forests start on the north side of town, fields stretch to the Dommel river on the west, and farms give way to the Malpy Fens a few miles before the frontier.
It seems isolated, but nowhere in the entire benelux is truly distant from anywhere.
Not if you receive deliveries from Blackwell's Bookstore in Oxford.
Book deliveries from the civilized world, Dundee Marmalade, Twinings Tea, and tinned plumpudding, are the mark of exiles worldwide. Along with Rattrays tobacco blends, and the Balkan Sobranie smoking mixture.
Having returned to the United States long ago, what I really want nowadays is the occasional pouch of Heerenbaai Tabak, which is ribbon-cut Maryland leaf, soft and fragrant ("zacht en geurig"), strong Dutch coffee, and, naturally, deep fried objects that cannot be described.
[Strong Dutch Coffee: most of the still extant native brands are now of questionable provenance, having been buggered up by an American company, then off-shored, and finally associated with yet another miserable American multinational in a German guise.]
Our house was diagonally opposite the Saint Nicholas Church, next to the Kerkweg. Driessen's drugstore was on the other side of the Kerkweg. The police station was down the block, facing the apotheek as well as the old Amsterdam Bank building across the square.
Small businesses, grocery stores, wholesalers of dry goods, household goods, banks, a bicycle repair shop, and insurance companies, alternating with private dwellings and the occasional eatery.
There weren't very many cafes or restaurants in the centre of town then, but the last time I went back for a visit, every other building on the Markt Plein, Luikerweg, Leenderweg, and elsewhere had been turned into an eatery or drinking hole. Mostly drinking holes.
My childhood home is now a bar.
From this you might assume that alcoholism presents a major business opportunity in Valkenswaard, and you would probably be right. But tobacco has a much stronger history. At one time there were over two dozen small cigar factories. They're gone now, but they are fondly remembered. The last two (Hofnar and Willem II) shut down in the nineteen eighties and nineties respectively. Nearly every family had based its march from the grinding poverty of the nineteenth century to the middle-class prosperity of the twenty first by means of employment in the smoking trade.
[Small cigar factories: Starting in 1865 when falconer Jan van Best established a small manufactury with money he had been left by a patron, there were over twenty such by the end of second decade of the twentieth century, employing leaf-strippers, bunchers, rollers, and warehousemen. Mostly younger women rolled the narrower diameter smokes, more practised hands produced the coronas and figurados. By the midtwenties, nearly half of the working population was employed in tobacco. It was an occupation that for over a century seldom experienced unemployment.]
When I was a child, tobacco was not part of my personal programme yet. But coffee, French fries, and the occasional unidentifiable fast-food comestible, along with books, definitely had a place in my life.
[Unidentifiable fast-food comestibles: frikandel, kroket, bami bal, nasi bal. Delicious.]
Every Wednesday afternoon I would park my bicycle outside of Priem's bookstore, go in, and spend two or three hours happily reading. They didn't have much in English, but their selection of fun stuff in Dutch was rather good, as was the section with comic books. They are still in business, and flourishing more than ever.
On a rainy afternoon, nothing was more enjoyable than forgetting the entire world while safe and dry amidst books.
Eventually I also discovered De Slegte in Eindhoven, as well as autres bibliothèques et librairies, but in Valkenswaard, Priem was an oasis.
I shall imagine that later crops of young people have also gratefully discovered the place, and likewise savoured time spent there.
Boekhandel Priem is a priceless treasure.
It's where the world begins.
THE TIME OF FRAGRANT LEAVES
The tobacconist next door to Priem is no longer in business, but far further down the Eindhovensche Weg the shop where I picked up tins of Balkan Sobranie and wonderful cigar factory seconds during my high school years has been transformed into Compaenen van Ravenstein, an emporium of luxury smokers requisites, including both Cubanos as well as Dutch cigars, and a selection of wines which might be enjoyed with your smoke.
They don't appear to be set up for internet purchases, but they can be contacted: write a letter to Messrs Meulensteen.
Returning to the United States after a trip back years ago, my luggage was filled with Dutch literature and cigars. Approaching customs I staggered under the weight, and was filthy, sweaty, exhausted.
"Do you have anything to declare?"
"No sir, not a thing."
"What's in your bags?"
"Books and dirty laundry. Lots of dirty laundry."
"I see..... Welcome home."
There's something about a fine Dutch cheroot that makes life grand.
It's worth suffering for.
The store is now in its second or third generation of ownership, and bigger and better than ever. Harry van Ravenstein, who sold the business in 2008, knows all about pairing pipe-tobacco and Scotch Whisky.
Which is priceless information.
THE ROAD TO THE REST OF THE WORLD
Closer to the Meerendreef, which marks the northern boundary of the settlement, the old house with the straw thatched roof where rats lived above the residents is, of course, a precious architectural masterpiece, and carefully preserved. We had a chance to buy it, and chose not to.
My mother did not want to sleep under so much combustible material.
Or the rats. For some reason she wasn't okay with rats.
I passed it every day during my teenage years.
It looked like a comfortable house.
The High School to which I went no longer exists -- conceivably too many brilliant graduates went on to stints in prison for brigandage or incendiary activities -- and the youth club where I hatched any number of plots to take over the world, along with several dissolute comrades of a similar bent, closed many years ago also.
[Youth club: Jeugdociëteit Parsifal. Formerly Aquaradius, in the Draaikolk building on the Maastrichterweg, where it was on the top floor, and, apparently, considered a serious nuisance. When that location was closed down, the intellectual rowdies invaded a working men's bar near Willem II for over a year, until the municipality relented and rented us an abandoned and falling apart building on the Eindhovenscheweg, on the condition that we act nicely, and also fix up the premises. I spent many happy afternoons and twilights there, swilling tea and smoking dark stinky Latakia blends in my pipe. It was just up the road from the aforementioned tobacconist.]
A long time ago, Plane Tree Lane ("Plataanlaan") past the Hertog Jan College was a spooky deserted area permanently in the shade from the old growth, but the last time I saw it it seemed gilded with sunlight, although still haphazardly unpaved and bumpy.
I don't know why I didn't remember it being beautiful.
Perhaps because one of my sadistic physical education teachers forced us all to jog in this section of the woods for hours, in lieu of anything more creative in the field of exercise.
Rain, sleet, frost and fog, occasionally snow.
I wonder if any of the kids at the high school ever got picked off and eaten by trolls there because of him.
THE ENDS OF THE EARTH
The town peters-out abruptly beyond this point. It's a half hour by bike to Eindhoven, which counts as the nearest big city. But Eindhoven, though exotic and foreign, never seemed as special.
It was simply where teenage boys went to buy smutty magazines.
Not a very exciting place, all things considered.
Stranger food. And worse coffee.
Valkenswaard is one of the navels of the world.
The centre of its own discrete universe.
Timeless, and stil fragrant.
APPENDICES
CIGAR COMPANIES FOUNDED IN VALKENSWAARD
A. Brangers; Botycos; Erba (N.V. Gijrath's Sigarenfabrieken); Firma Baeten; Firma Gebroeders Jeurissen; Firma H. Kersten & Co.; Firma Van Aken & Van Veldhoven, Firma Van Hoof-Swinkels; Firma Van Veldhoven en Van Der Heijde; Firma W. Helling en Co.; G. Plompen & Co.; Gebroeders Neijnens (Neijnens Brothers); Gebroeders Rijkers (Rijkers Brothers); Gebroeders Van Best (Van Best Brothers, Hollandia brand); Hofnar; H. Kinjet (Hamilton brand); Holland-Amerika; J. Heesterbeek & Co.; J. Peters; J. Smulders; Lord Carnavon; N.V. Jasneva (Jaspers & Snellens; Hendrick Hudson cigars); S. de Louwere; Taberna (Chris Van De Kerkhof & Zoon); Texas Sigaren Fabriek (Firma Hoekx en Maas, "Texas Tips"); Theo van Gerven; Van Aken & Co.;Willem II.
Et mult altres.
Altogether, there were over seventy brands from this town.
Only Hofnar and Willem II survived past the sixties.
SOME TOBACCOS USED IN DUTCH CIGARS
MAJOR TYPES:
Sumatra, which is soft, silky and thin; of an even light-medium hue, fragrant and almost floral. Often used for wrapper ("dekblad"; capa).
Java (Besuki regencies), thicker and a little coarser, stronger than Sumatra, and while naturally aromatic, it is a drier fragrance, more incense like and resinous. Both binder ("omblad"; banda, capote, ) and filler.
Brazilian, having both a spiciness as well as a sweetness; filler only ("binnengoed", tripa).
Cuba, also called Havana, a rich-tasting medium full leaf from Pinar del Río with a broad flavour palette, earthy and somewhat "salty".
Often used condimentally as part of the filler melange.
Finer qualities are suitable as wrapper leaves.
It feels "toothy" to the finger tips.
LESSER TYPES:
Varinas, that being the name for Venezuelan crops from Varinas and neighboring provinces, a fine delicate leaf of chestnut colour, medium strength.
Manila, sweeter and less aromatic than Java, but more uniform in hue.
Mexican, very similar to Cuban in appearance, touch, and flavour, but less finely cultivated and cured.
Domingo, Santo Domingo; a fragrant light coloured leaf of excellent aroma, suitable for long filler, though the finest leaves will be used as wrappers.
Porto Rico is suitable only for filler due to variable colouration, but it adds a sweetness. It is more often used to make 'krul tabak' ("curly"), that being a single-type pipe tobacco formerly both cheap and popular.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Here lie the landscapes that inspire, and will cause obsession.
They form and malform the visual imagination.
Malleable points of reference.
Dreams.
And madness.
A family from California once headed in this direction, and settled down.
It appeared to be a good idea at the time.
TENANT FARMERS, SAND, AND FALCONRY
Valkenswaard, which lies in the east of this area, is equidistant from Eindhoven to the north and the Belgian border southwards. Pine forests start on the north side of town, fields stretch to the Dommel river on the west, and farms give way to the Malpy Fens a few miles before the frontier.
It seems isolated, but nowhere in the entire benelux is truly distant from anywhere.
Not if you receive deliveries from Blackwell's Bookstore in Oxford.
Book deliveries from the civilized world, Dundee Marmalade, Twinings Tea, and tinned plumpudding, are the mark of exiles worldwide. Along with Rattrays tobacco blends, and the Balkan Sobranie smoking mixture.
Having returned to the United States long ago, what I really want nowadays is the occasional pouch of Heerenbaai Tabak, which is ribbon-cut Maryland leaf, soft and fragrant ("zacht en geurig"), strong Dutch coffee, and, naturally, deep fried objects that cannot be described.
[Strong Dutch Coffee: most of the still extant native brands are now of questionable provenance, having been buggered up by an American company, then off-shored, and finally associated with yet another miserable American multinational in a German guise.]
Our house was diagonally opposite the Saint Nicholas Church, next to the Kerkweg. Driessen's drugstore was on the other side of the Kerkweg. The police station was down the block, facing the apotheek as well as the old Amsterdam Bank building across the square.
Small businesses, grocery stores, wholesalers of dry goods, household goods, banks, a bicycle repair shop, and insurance companies, alternating with private dwellings and the occasional eatery.
There weren't very many cafes or restaurants in the centre of town then, but the last time I went back for a visit, every other building on the Markt Plein, Luikerweg, Leenderweg, and elsewhere had been turned into an eatery or drinking hole. Mostly drinking holes.
My childhood home is now a bar.
From this you might assume that alcoholism presents a major business opportunity in Valkenswaard, and you would probably be right. But tobacco has a much stronger history. At one time there were over two dozen small cigar factories. They're gone now, but they are fondly remembered. The last two (Hofnar and Willem II) shut down in the nineteen eighties and nineties respectively. Nearly every family had based its march from the grinding poverty of the nineteenth century to the middle-class prosperity of the twenty first by means of employment in the smoking trade.
[Small cigar factories: Starting in 1865 when falconer Jan van Best established a small manufactury with money he had been left by a patron, there were over twenty such by the end of second decade of the twentieth century, employing leaf-strippers, bunchers, rollers, and warehousemen. Mostly younger women rolled the narrower diameter smokes, more practised hands produced the coronas and figurados. By the midtwenties, nearly half of the working population was employed in tobacco. It was an occupation that for over a century seldom experienced unemployment.]
When I was a child, tobacco was not part of my personal programme yet. But coffee, French fries, and the occasional unidentifiable fast-food comestible, along with books, definitely had a place in my life.
[Unidentifiable fast-food comestibles: frikandel, kroket, bami bal, nasi bal. Delicious.]
Every Wednesday afternoon I would park my bicycle outside of Priem's bookstore, go in, and spend two or three hours happily reading. They didn't have much in English, but their selection of fun stuff in Dutch was rather good, as was the section with comic books. They are still in business, and flourishing more than ever.
On a rainy afternoon, nothing was more enjoyable than forgetting the entire world while safe and dry amidst books.
Eventually I also discovered De Slegte in Eindhoven, as well as autres bibliothèques et librairies, but in Valkenswaard, Priem was an oasis.
I shall imagine that later crops of young people have also gratefully discovered the place, and likewise savoured time spent there.
Boekhandel Priem is a priceless treasure.
It's where the world begins.
THE TIME OF FRAGRANT LEAVES
The tobacconist next door to Priem is no longer in business, but far further down the Eindhovensche Weg the shop where I picked up tins of Balkan Sobranie and wonderful cigar factory seconds during my high school years has been transformed into Compaenen van Ravenstein, an emporium of luxury smokers requisites, including both Cubanos as well as Dutch cigars, and a selection of wines which might be enjoyed with your smoke.
They don't appear to be set up for internet purchases, but they can be contacted: write a letter to Messrs Meulensteen.
Returning to the United States after a trip back years ago, my luggage was filled with Dutch literature and cigars. Approaching customs I staggered under the weight, and was filthy, sweaty, exhausted.
"Do you have anything to declare?"
"No sir, not a thing."
"What's in your bags?"
"Books and dirty laundry. Lots of dirty laundry."
"I see..... Welcome home."
There's something about a fine Dutch cheroot that makes life grand.
It's worth suffering for.
The store is now in its second or third generation of ownership, and bigger and better than ever. Harry van Ravenstein, who sold the business in 2008, knows all about pairing pipe-tobacco and Scotch Whisky.
Which is priceless information.
THE ROAD TO THE REST OF THE WORLD
Closer to the Meerendreef, which marks the northern boundary of the settlement, the old house with the straw thatched roof where rats lived above the residents is, of course, a precious architectural masterpiece, and carefully preserved. We had a chance to buy it, and chose not to.
My mother did not want to sleep under so much combustible material.
Or the rats. For some reason she wasn't okay with rats.
I passed it every day during my teenage years.
It looked like a comfortable house.
The High School to which I went no longer exists -- conceivably too many brilliant graduates went on to stints in prison for brigandage or incendiary activities -- and the youth club where I hatched any number of plots to take over the world, along with several dissolute comrades of a similar bent, closed many years ago also.
[Youth club: Jeugdociëteit Parsifal. Formerly Aquaradius, in the Draaikolk building on the Maastrichterweg, where it was on the top floor, and, apparently, considered a serious nuisance. When that location was closed down, the intellectual rowdies invaded a working men's bar near Willem II for over a year, until the municipality relented and rented us an abandoned and falling apart building on the Eindhovenscheweg, on the condition that we act nicely, and also fix up the premises. I spent many happy afternoons and twilights there, swilling tea and smoking dark stinky Latakia blends in my pipe. It was just up the road from the aforementioned tobacconist.]
A long time ago, Plane Tree Lane ("Plataanlaan") past the Hertog Jan College was a spooky deserted area permanently in the shade from the old growth, but the last time I saw it it seemed gilded with sunlight, although still haphazardly unpaved and bumpy.
I don't know why I didn't remember it being beautiful.
Perhaps because one of my sadistic physical education teachers forced us all to jog in this section of the woods for hours, in lieu of anything more creative in the field of exercise.
Rain, sleet, frost and fog, occasionally snow.
I wonder if any of the kids at the high school ever got picked off and eaten by trolls there because of him.
THE ENDS OF THE EARTH
The town peters-out abruptly beyond this point. It's a half hour by bike to Eindhoven, which counts as the nearest big city. But Eindhoven, though exotic and foreign, never seemed as special.
It was simply where teenage boys went to buy smutty magazines.
Not a very exciting place, all things considered.
Stranger food. And worse coffee.
Valkenswaard is one of the navels of the world.
The centre of its own discrete universe.
Timeless, and stil fragrant.
APPENDICES
CIGAR COMPANIES FOUNDED IN VALKENSWAARD
A. Brangers; Botycos; Erba (N.V. Gijrath's Sigarenfabrieken); Firma Baeten; Firma Gebroeders Jeurissen; Firma H. Kersten & Co.; Firma Van Aken & Van Veldhoven, Firma Van Hoof-Swinkels; Firma Van Veldhoven en Van Der Heijde; Firma W. Helling en Co.; G. Plompen & Co.; Gebroeders Neijnens (Neijnens Brothers); Gebroeders Rijkers (Rijkers Brothers); Gebroeders Van Best (Van Best Brothers, Hollandia brand); Hofnar; H. Kinjet (Hamilton brand); Holland-Amerika; J. Heesterbeek & Co.; J. Peters; J. Smulders; Lord Carnavon; N.V. Jasneva (Jaspers & Snellens; Hendrick Hudson cigars); S. de Louwere; Taberna (Chris Van De Kerkhof & Zoon); Texas Sigaren Fabriek (Firma Hoekx en Maas, "Texas Tips"); Theo van Gerven; Van Aken & Co.;Willem II.
Et mult altres.
Altogether, there were over seventy brands from this town.
Only Hofnar and Willem II survived past the sixties.
SOME TOBACCOS USED IN DUTCH CIGARS
MAJOR TYPES:
Sumatra, which is soft, silky and thin; of an even light-medium hue, fragrant and almost floral. Often used for wrapper ("dekblad"; capa).
Java (Besuki regencies), thicker and a little coarser, stronger than Sumatra, and while naturally aromatic, it is a drier fragrance, more incense like and resinous. Both binder ("omblad"; banda, capote, ) and filler.
Brazilian, having both a spiciness as well as a sweetness; filler only ("binnengoed", tripa).
Cuba, also called Havana, a rich-tasting medium full leaf from Pinar del Río with a broad flavour palette, earthy and somewhat "salty".
Often used condimentally as part of the filler melange.
Finer qualities are suitable as wrapper leaves.
It feels "toothy" to the finger tips.
LESSER TYPES:
Varinas, that being the name for Venezuelan crops from Varinas and neighboring provinces, a fine delicate leaf of chestnut colour, medium strength.
Manila, sweeter and less aromatic than Java, but more uniform in hue.
Mexican, very similar to Cuban in appearance, touch, and flavour, but less finely cultivated and cured.
Domingo, Santo Domingo; a fragrant light coloured leaf of excellent aroma, suitable for long filler, though the finest leaves will be used as wrappers.
Porto Rico is suitable only for filler due to variable colouration, but it adds a sweetness. It is more often used to make 'krul tabak' ("curly"), that being a single-type pipe tobacco formerly both cheap and popular.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, September 11, 2015
BACON AND CURLY FRIES
Conversationally I am not exactly a thrill-meister. No, I cannot blame others for this, it's just a fact. The people who seem most attracted to me in certain environments are usually the elderly, the insane, and the intoxicated.
Yes, of course I usually tolerate them.
They also need to speak.
Over the years I've gotten better at sensing who these people are, and eventually avoiding them if I don't feel gregarious. As well as withdrawing from conversations where my input is not really appreciated.
That latter ability is far more important.
I'm not very social anymore.
Among the strange revelations from people who have pinpointed me as a tolerant cooz who won't tell them in uncertain terms to bugger off and leave me be, so far not a single one has been that the speaker is a very normal person who is sane, balanced, and altogether not very exciting.
The world is filled with unique individuals.
Or San Francisco is, at least.
And they know it.
VISUALLY INVOLVED
I wasn't hungry till he had food delivered from a restaurant in the alley. The conversation continued while he and the third person consumed it. They left shortly after eating, and by that time the noise level had sufficiently clobbered me that I felt no need to stay there either.
It's not something which I planned, nor a particular preference, but I usually dine alone. When I'm at a restaurant I will pick the seat that allows me a greater view of everyone else in there, as well as the street outside.
I rather like busy streets, as there is so much to see.
And other people interacting are fascinating.
It's very much like being in a zoo.
Observational ambiguity.
What tells me that I am not the monkey behind bars is that I have a choice about when and what I eat.
When I got home I fixed myself noodles with bacon, bitter melon, and hot sauce.
Sriracha: it's the solitary man's companion.
That just happened.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
They also need to speak.
Over the years I've gotten better at sensing who these people are, and eventually avoiding them if I don't feel gregarious. As well as withdrawing from conversations where my input is not really appreciated.
That latter ability is far more important.
I'm not very social anymore.
Among the strange revelations from people who have pinpointed me as a tolerant cooz who won't tell them in uncertain terms to bugger off and leave me be, so far not a single one has been that the speaker is a very normal person who is sane, balanced, and altogether not very exciting.
The world is filled with unique individuals.
Or San Francisco is, at least.
And they know it.
VISUALLY INVOLVED
I wasn't hungry till he had food delivered from a restaurant in the alley. The conversation continued while he and the third person consumed it. They left shortly after eating, and by that time the noise level had sufficiently clobbered me that I felt no need to stay there either.
It's not something which I planned, nor a particular preference, but I usually dine alone. When I'm at a restaurant I will pick the seat that allows me a greater view of everyone else in there, as well as the street outside.
I rather like busy streets, as there is so much to see.
And other people interacting are fascinating.
It's very much like being in a zoo.
Observational ambiguity.
What tells me that I am not the monkey behind bars is that I have a choice about when and what I eat.
When I got home I fixed myself noodles with bacon, bitter melon, and hot sauce.
Sriracha: it's the solitary man's companion.
That just happened.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, September 10, 2015
MEAT SIZZLING ON THE GRILL
Any thoughts of finding female companionship, for all men who are seriously interested in such things, must be postponed till after the hot weather is over. Yes, at this time of year lots of lovely things can be seen, due to sensible but dubious clothing choices, but realistically no woman will consider dating when she is hideously uncomfortable.
Which she is, at ninety plus in the shade.
Dang it's hot outside.
90°F !
Actually, at this very hour it is quite bearable, what with being shortly after five in the morning. But it is extremely unlikely that there are any significant dating prospects roaming about at this hour in San Francisco, and in any case I have to be elsewhere for new system training at eight o'clock.
So I cannot be distracted by bare thighs.
Or loose tee-shirts no brassiere.
Flip-flops and cute toes.
Why ARE you dressed like that at five o'clock in the morning? That's NOT suitable garb for a computer programmer or female e-geek.
Oh wait, I'm dreaming again.
The heat got to me.
Rational people will wait for the daily temperature to drop to less than seventy, primarily because only if it feels cool is any form of physical contact, like nuzzling or hand-holding, enjoyable.
The last four days have been hot.
And, consequently, sticky.
Not woman weather.
33⅓°Celsius.
PS: Real women are like charsiu.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which she is, at ninety plus in the shade.
Dang it's hot outside.
90°F !
Actually, at this very hour it is quite bearable, what with being shortly after five in the morning. But it is extremely unlikely that there are any significant dating prospects roaming about at this hour in San Francisco, and in any case I have to be elsewhere for new system training at eight o'clock.
So I cannot be distracted by bare thighs.
Or loose tee-shirts no brassiere.
Flip-flops and cute toes.
Why ARE you dressed like that at five o'clock in the morning? That's NOT suitable garb for a computer programmer or female e-geek.
Oh wait, I'm dreaming again.
The heat got to me.
Rational people will wait for the daily temperature to drop to less than seventy, primarily because only if it feels cool is any form of physical contact, like nuzzling or hand-holding, enjoyable.
The last four days have been hot.
And, consequently, sticky.
Not woman weather.
33⅓°Celsius.
PS: Real women are like charsiu.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, September 09, 2015
HEY STUPID WHITE GUYS!
So a bunch of no-necked Muricans decided to have an anti-immigrant rally along a road somewhere in Palmdale -- which is part of the entire stretch of Murica that we stole from Messko, where Messkins lived waaaaay before the Southern Rednecks invaded -- and a person of what may be Latino ancestry seized the opportunity to have a happy dance.
Right in front of their little tight-ass gringo pride manifestation.
Doing a lively hippity hop while waving a Mexican flag.
Naturally that displeased the white guys.
Who vocalized.
I JES' BE DANCIN', VATO!
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ba8gVp3WaT0.]
As one of the white guys at the event says "I could degrade myself, I could make a public fool out of myself". Truer words were seldom spoken, and he proceeds to demonstrate the ability of which he had just seconds ago boasted.
"Iz pretty funny, hah?"
Yah know, Messkins got rythm. Dat why de Muricans not be dancin'.
For the curious, Palmdale is in Southern California, far too close to the city of Los Angeles for comfort. There are over one hundred and fifty thousand people living there, of whom a minority are white, though the Hispanic population probably does all the work.
The largest employers are Lockheed Martin and Northrop Grumman, which in all probability tells you everything you need to know about most of the white people who live there.
They vote Republican.
Of course.
In case you're driving through, there are several McDonald's restaurants for your dining convenience in Palmdale.
McDonald's
Antelope Valley Mall
Palmdale
McDonald's
131 East Palmdale Boulevard
Palmdale
McDonald's
830 West Avenue P
Palmdale
McDonald's
2427 East Ave S
Palmdale
McDonald's
5049 West Ave N
Palmdale
There is also an airport, and a shopping mall.
Everything's up to date in Palmdale.
Bienvenidos!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Right in front of their little tight-ass gringo pride manifestation.
Doing a lively hippity hop while waving a Mexican flag.
Naturally that displeased the white guys.
Who vocalized.
I JES' BE DANCIN', VATO!
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ba8gVp3WaT0.]
As one of the white guys at the event says "I could degrade myself, I could make a public fool out of myself". Truer words were seldom spoken, and he proceeds to demonstrate the ability of which he had just seconds ago boasted.
"Iz pretty funny, hah?"
Yah know, Messkins got rythm. Dat why de Muricans not be dancin'.
For the curious, Palmdale is in Southern California, far too close to the city of Los Angeles for comfort. There are over one hundred and fifty thousand people living there, of whom a minority are white, though the Hispanic population probably does all the work.
The largest employers are Lockheed Martin and Northrop Grumman, which in all probability tells you everything you need to know about most of the white people who live there.
They vote Republican.
Of course.
In case you're driving through, there are several McDonald's restaurants for your dining convenience in Palmdale.
McDonald's
Antelope Valley Mall
Palmdale
McDonald's
131 East Palmdale Boulevard
Palmdale
McDonald's
830 West Avenue P
Palmdale
McDonald's
2427 East Ave S
Palmdale
McDonald's
5049 West Ave N
Palmdale
There is also an airport, and a shopping mall.
Everything's up to date in Palmdale.
Bienvenidos!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE DOKRIPGUNGA
One of the melodies that almost the entire world knows, other than the Marseillaise, which everyone who has seen Casablanca can sing in their sleep, is Marching Through Georgia.
There's also a version in Korean.
When the Japanese occupied the Korean Peninsula a century ago, many groups organized against the invader. Resistance continued throughout the period of Japanese colonialism, till at last in 1945 things took a turn for the better.
The "Independence Army Song" ('dokripgun ga') was one of the earliest imports to accompany them in their struggle. Consequently, it has a venerable status.
The tune is Marching Through Georgia.
獨立軍歌 DOKRIPGUN GA 독립군가
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=InpNhbOXMaM.]
독립군가
1.
신대한국 독립군의 백만용사야 조국의 부르심을 네가 아느냐
삼천리 삼천만의 우리동포들 건질 이 너와 나로다
Refrain:
나가 나가 싸우러 나가 나가 나가 싸우러 나가
독립문의 자유종이 울릴 때까지 싸우러 나가세
2.
원수들이 강하다고 겁을 낼 건가 우리들이 약하다고 낙심할 건가
정의의 날쌘 칼이 비끼는 곳에 이길 이 너와 나로다
3.
너 살거든 독립군의 용사가 되고 나 죽으면 독립군의 혼령이 됨이
동지야 너와 나의 소원 아니냐 빛낼 이 너와 나로다
4.
압록강과 두만강을 뛰어 건너라 악독한 원수무리 쓸어 몰아라
잃었던 조국강산 회복하는 날 만세를 불러보세
Doglibgun ga
1.
Sindaehangug doglibgun-ui baegman-yongsaya, jogug-ui buleusim-eul nega aneunya samcheonli, Samcheonman-ui ulidongpodeul geonjil i neowa naloda.
Refrain:
Naga, naga, ssauleo naga. Naga, naga, ssauleo naga.
Doglibmun-ui jayujong-i ullil ttaekkaji, ssauleo nagase.
2.
Wonsudeul-i ganghadago geob-eul nael geonga, ulideul-i yaghadago nagsimhal geonga
Jeong-uiui nalssaen kal-i bikkineun gos-e igil i neowa naloda.
3.
Neo salgeodeun doglibgun-ui yongsaga doego na jug-eumyeon doglibgun-ui honlyeong-i doem-i
Dongjiya neowa naui sowon aninya bichnael i neowa naloda.
4.
Abloggang-gwa dumangang-eul ttwieo geonneola agdoghan wonsumuli sseul-eo mol-ala
Ilh-eossdeon joguggangsan hoeboghaneun nal manseleul bulleobose.
* * * * *
I am sorry, but even with the assistance of Google Translate, I cannot make head or tail out of these lyrics. The video above shows that there are multiple levels of interpretive applicability.
As well as a span from accordion to electric guitar.
It shows up in a courtroom scene in the television series "Gakitsal" (각시탈; Bridal Mask), which is set in the thirties.
I believe it may date as far back as the Battle of CheongSanRi.
Which was fought ninety five years ago.
October 1920.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There's also a version in Korean.
When the Japanese occupied the Korean Peninsula a century ago, many groups organized against the invader. Resistance continued throughout the period of Japanese colonialism, till at last in 1945 things took a turn for the better.
The "Independence Army Song" ('dokripgun ga') was one of the earliest imports to accompany them in their struggle. Consequently, it has a venerable status.
The tune is Marching Through Georgia.
獨立軍歌 DOKRIPGUN GA 독립군가
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=InpNhbOXMaM.]
독립군가
1.
신대한국 독립군의 백만용사야 조국의 부르심을 네가 아느냐
삼천리 삼천만의 우리동포들 건질 이 너와 나로다
Refrain:
나가 나가 싸우러 나가 나가 나가 싸우러 나가
독립문의 자유종이 울릴 때까지 싸우러 나가세
2.
원수들이 강하다고 겁을 낼 건가 우리들이 약하다고 낙심할 건가
정의의 날쌘 칼이 비끼는 곳에 이길 이 너와 나로다
3.
너 살거든 독립군의 용사가 되고 나 죽으면 독립군의 혼령이 됨이
동지야 너와 나의 소원 아니냐 빛낼 이 너와 나로다
4.
압록강과 두만강을 뛰어 건너라 악독한 원수무리 쓸어 몰아라
잃었던 조국강산 회복하는 날 만세를 불러보세
Doglibgun ga
1.
Sindaehangug doglibgun-ui baegman-yongsaya, jogug-ui buleusim-eul nega aneunya samcheonli, Samcheonman-ui ulidongpodeul geonjil i neowa naloda.
Refrain:
Naga, naga, ssauleo naga. Naga, naga, ssauleo naga.
Doglibmun-ui jayujong-i ullil ttaekkaji, ssauleo nagase.
2.
Wonsudeul-i ganghadago geob-eul nael geonga, ulideul-i yaghadago nagsimhal geonga
Jeong-uiui nalssaen kal-i bikkineun gos-e igil i neowa naloda.
3.
Neo salgeodeun doglibgun-ui yongsaga doego na jug-eumyeon doglibgun-ui honlyeong-i doem-i
Dongjiya neowa naui sowon aninya bichnael i neowa naloda.
4.
Abloggang-gwa dumangang-eul ttwieo geonneola agdoghan wonsumuli sseul-eo mol-ala
Ilh-eossdeon joguggangsan hoeboghaneun nal manseleul bulleobose.
* * * * *
I am sorry, but even with the assistance of Google Translate, I cannot make head or tail out of these lyrics. The video above shows that there are multiple levels of interpretive applicability.
As well as a span from accordion to electric guitar.
It shows up in a courtroom scene in the television series "Gakitsal" (각시탈; Bridal Mask), which is set in the thirties.
I believe it may date as far back as the Battle of CheongSanRi.
Which was fought ninety five years ago.
October 1920.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, September 08, 2015
APPRECIATING MORLEYSSON -- BLENDS BY BOB RUNOWSKI
I never met Bob Runowski, who passed away in July of last year, but I have smoked his tobaccos. Bob had a great affection for air-cured leaf.
It was the old-fashioned American blends that he liked best.
His own stuff evoked a bygone era, and a golden age.
Americana, Bailey's Front Porch, Bayou Morning, Elegant Emu, Epiphany, Good Morning, Haunted Bookshop, Home From The Hills, Morley's Best, Old Joe Krantz, Pegasus, Purple Cow, Riverboat Gambler.
Over all, excellent pipe mixtures.
My favourite Runowski blend is probably Haunted Bookshop -- I look at my cellar, and I seem to have the most of that -- but all of his creations deserve praise. Bob was the master of Burley blends, which probably explains why some of his sterling efforts are no longer available. Cornell & Diehl has been Laudisified, and Burley leaf, not being the most popular of blending bases anymore, represents an older America that is fast dying off. The younger crowd prefers fruitloops and cotton candy.
Nope, shan't sneer at any of the berry farts that are now so prominent.
But I will mention that other than Black Vanilla Cavendish (from various manufacturers) and Cherry tobacco (from various even more misguided manufacturers), one of the most popular products among the younger set appears to be Molto Dolce, by Sutliff. Molto Dolce is a soggy abortion, greasy to the touch, in which black Cavendish, Virginia of some sort, and alledgedly a smidge of Burley are drenched in vanilla, caramel, and honey.
It is a flamboyant whore, and may destroy civilization.
This is where the future lies. Laudisi have probably recognised this, and if Bob Runowksi were still alive, he would be horrified.
I avoid Molto Dolce like the plague, as well as its fans; for all I know it might indeed be smokeable. It is, after all, combustible, or so I've heard. I use the open can of Molto Dolce to show what tobacco is NOT supposed to be, as well as to scare people of refinement and good taste.
Tobacco, embalmed with moisturizers.
Bomb shelter shreds.
THE GHOSTS OF PAST LITERATURE
At this very moment I am enjoying a bowl of Haunted Bookshop. It was tinned in 2007. Burley, red Virginia, and a subtle hint of Perique.
Many younger people will not like it, because it is unflavoured, and requires a brain to appreciate. Gandalf imitators with their churchwarden pipes may barf in consequence, and their sponge-brained wives will wrinkle noses in disgust at so horribly un-hobbitlike a smell.
No, I cannot tell you what the room-note is, I do not have a hobbit bitch infesting my living space. Women who like aromatic mixtures are to be strenuously avoided.
I think it probably smells like tobacco.
SHORT CAPSULE REVIEWS
Follow brief descriptions and reflections on products for which Bob Runowski bears responsibility. He will be greatly missed.
AMERICANA
Black Cavendish, Latakia, Burley, and Virginia.
A reliable old-fashioned blend that delivers a steady smoke for the man who wants something unpretentious in his pipe. Not very complex, but it is reminiscent of many of the tobacconist products of yore. If this doesn't remind you of the shop where your father bought his weekly two ounces, nothing will, and you may be dead above the neck.
Highly recommended.
OOP
BAILEY'S FRONT PORCH
Burley, Latakia, Perique, Virginia.
Smoky, mellow, sweet, and earthy. A pensive blend for old-fashioned people. Sometimes the Virginia adds a tanginess when you don't expect it, sometimes it doesn't. It is a very old-school product, and may whomp you with the nicotine. Especially early in the morning.
Good.
Not great.
But damned good.
BAYOU MORNING
Virginia and Perique.
Red Virginias meet peppery Perique. Figgy, and fermentive. Sweet, creamy, zesty, refreshing. An adult tobacco. Memorable.
Undertones of a rich earthiness.
Not for wusses, nor Hobbits
ELEGANT EMU
White Cubed Burley, Latakia, Red Virginia, Perique and Black Cavendish.
Blended By Bob Runowski and Craig Tarler
Burley and Latakia forward, supported by other tobaccos. Smoke it slowly for fullest enjoyment. The black Cavendish may throw you for a loop; it is not fully a player, and it can be discordant.
EPIPHANY
Burley, Latakia, Perique, Virginia.
Tarler & Runowski
Lightly topped.
Figs, prunes, citrus. Modeled after an old Philip Morris pipe mixture.
Nicely balanced and harmonious. Some people love it.
I don't.
GOOD MORNING
Latakia, Turkish, and Virginia.
Tarler and Runowski
I can't tell you anything about this, as I bought it primarily for the label art, and have never opened a single tin. They're sitting on a shelf with all the other tobaccos.
I suppose eight years age means I should sample it....
But I've got too much other stuff going on.
HAUNTED BOOKSHOP
Burley, Kentucky, Perique, and Virginia.
Robust, and extremely likeable, like a sailor on shore leave. The tin note is tangy, and makes me remember summers long ago. Yeasty. Hay and wild grasses. A lovely product that leaves you feeling satisfied; you will not need to smoke anymore for a while.
I think you should have some tea after puffing this.
Or lunch. Definitely lunch.
HOME FROM THE HILLS
Burley, Latakia, Perique, Virginia.
Ethereally sweet, and slightly nutty. The spiciness of Latakia becomes smooth and chocolaty in conjunction with the air cured leaves. The Perique is a delicate touch.
Virginias: sometimes unnoticeable, sometimes charming visitors. Figgy.
OOP
MORLEY'S BEST
Burley, Latakia, Virginia.
Sweet, creamy, with a very slight spiciness. If you suck furiously, the sweetness fades and the Latakia jumps out at you. This is a blend that requires a sober approach, and will reward forethought.
Not a casual tobacco by any standards.
OLD JOE KRANTZ
Burley, Kentucky, Perique, Virginia.
Coarse and unsophisticated of appearance, providing a potent sweet-nutty-creamy smoke. This may very well be the most straightforward tobacco you will ever smoke.
It is strong, and not for the faint of heart.
Hobbits beware!
PEGASUS
Virginias, Burley, uncased Black Cavendish.
Prominent Burley nose, not surprising given that there are three different types playing together. Nuttiness, almost cigar-like flavours, sweet, ever so slightly fruity from the beautiful Virginia, and clean burning. This is NOT a heavy product, but neither is it for dilettantes.
This stuff smells fantastic.
PURPLE COW
Burley, Cigar Leaf, Latakia, Virginia.
If it weren't for the Latakia, one might be baffled. Cigar tobacco is largely a wuss; in the first few weeks it dominates and dries the mouth, but after several months it will quiet down, and eventually barely be noticeable. This is pleasant and mild, and does not smell appealing to other people when smoked.
Toasty, with the faintest hints of burning sugar and fruits.
RIVERBOAT GAMBLER
Burley, Turkish, Perique, Virginia.
Blended By Bob Runowski and Craig Tarler
Complex, resinous, slightly sweet with a hint of bitterness. Bold. It can hit you in the face. The Turkish proves itself a necessary component, if only to tone down what would otherwise be a cudgel.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It was the old-fashioned American blends that he liked best.
His own stuff evoked a bygone era, and a golden age.
Americana, Bailey's Front Porch, Bayou Morning, Elegant Emu, Epiphany, Good Morning, Haunted Bookshop, Home From The Hills, Morley's Best, Old Joe Krantz, Pegasus, Purple Cow, Riverboat Gambler.
Over all, excellent pipe mixtures.
My favourite Runowski blend is probably Haunted Bookshop -- I look at my cellar, and I seem to have the most of that -- but all of his creations deserve praise. Bob was the master of Burley blends, which probably explains why some of his sterling efforts are no longer available. Cornell & Diehl has been Laudisified, and Burley leaf, not being the most popular of blending bases anymore, represents an older America that is fast dying off. The younger crowd prefers fruitloops and cotton candy.
Nope, shan't sneer at any of the berry farts that are now so prominent.
But I will mention that other than Black Vanilla Cavendish (from various manufacturers) and Cherry tobacco (from various even more misguided manufacturers), one of the most popular products among the younger set appears to be Molto Dolce, by Sutliff. Molto Dolce is a soggy abortion, greasy to the touch, in which black Cavendish, Virginia of some sort, and alledgedly a smidge of Burley are drenched in vanilla, caramel, and honey.
It is a flamboyant whore, and may destroy civilization.
This is where the future lies. Laudisi have probably recognised this, and if Bob Runowksi were still alive, he would be horrified.
I avoid Molto Dolce like the plague, as well as its fans; for all I know it might indeed be smokeable. It is, after all, combustible, or so I've heard. I use the open can of Molto Dolce to show what tobacco is NOT supposed to be, as well as to scare people of refinement and good taste.
Tobacco, embalmed with moisturizers.
Bomb shelter shreds.
THE GHOSTS OF PAST LITERATURE
At this very moment I am enjoying a bowl of Haunted Bookshop. It was tinned in 2007. Burley, red Virginia, and a subtle hint of Perique.
Many younger people will not like it, because it is unflavoured, and requires a brain to appreciate. Gandalf imitators with their churchwarden pipes may barf in consequence, and their sponge-brained wives will wrinkle noses in disgust at so horribly un-hobbitlike a smell.
No, I cannot tell you what the room-note is, I do not have a hobbit bitch infesting my living space. Women who like aromatic mixtures are to be strenuously avoided.
I think it probably smells like tobacco.
SHORT CAPSULE REVIEWS
Follow brief descriptions and reflections on products for which Bob Runowski bears responsibility. He will be greatly missed.
AMERICANA
Black Cavendish, Latakia, Burley, and Virginia.
A reliable old-fashioned blend that delivers a steady smoke for the man who wants something unpretentious in his pipe. Not very complex, but it is reminiscent of many of the tobacconist products of yore. If this doesn't remind you of the shop where your father bought his weekly two ounces, nothing will, and you may be dead above the neck.
Highly recommended.
OOP
BAILEY'S FRONT PORCH
Burley, Latakia, Perique, Virginia.
Smoky, mellow, sweet, and earthy. A pensive blend for old-fashioned people. Sometimes the Virginia adds a tanginess when you don't expect it, sometimes it doesn't. It is a very old-school product, and may whomp you with the nicotine. Especially early in the morning.
Good.
Not great.
But damned good.
BAYOU MORNING
Virginia and Perique.
Red Virginias meet peppery Perique. Figgy, and fermentive. Sweet, creamy, zesty, refreshing. An adult tobacco. Memorable.
Undertones of a rich earthiness.
Not for wusses, nor Hobbits
ELEGANT EMU
White Cubed Burley, Latakia, Red Virginia, Perique and Black Cavendish.
Blended By Bob Runowski and Craig Tarler
Burley and Latakia forward, supported by other tobaccos. Smoke it slowly for fullest enjoyment. The black Cavendish may throw you for a loop; it is not fully a player, and it can be discordant.
EPIPHANY
Burley, Latakia, Perique, Virginia.
Tarler & Runowski
Lightly topped.
Figs, prunes, citrus. Modeled after an old Philip Morris pipe mixture.
Nicely balanced and harmonious. Some people love it.
I don't.
GOOD MORNING
Latakia, Turkish, and Virginia.
Tarler and Runowski
I can't tell you anything about this, as I bought it primarily for the label art, and have never opened a single tin. They're sitting on a shelf with all the other tobaccos.
I suppose eight years age means I should sample it....
But I've got too much other stuff going on.
HAUNTED BOOKSHOP
Burley, Kentucky, Perique, and Virginia.
Robust, and extremely likeable, like a sailor on shore leave. The tin note is tangy, and makes me remember summers long ago. Yeasty. Hay and wild grasses. A lovely product that leaves you feeling satisfied; you will not need to smoke anymore for a while.
I think you should have some tea after puffing this.
Or lunch. Definitely lunch.
HOME FROM THE HILLS
Burley, Latakia, Perique, Virginia.
Ethereally sweet, and slightly nutty. The spiciness of Latakia becomes smooth and chocolaty in conjunction with the air cured leaves. The Perique is a delicate touch.
Virginias: sometimes unnoticeable, sometimes charming visitors. Figgy.
OOP
MORLEY'S BEST
Burley, Latakia, Virginia.
Sweet, creamy, with a very slight spiciness. If you suck furiously, the sweetness fades and the Latakia jumps out at you. This is a blend that requires a sober approach, and will reward forethought.
Not a casual tobacco by any standards.
OLD JOE KRANTZ
Burley, Kentucky, Perique, Virginia.
Coarse and unsophisticated of appearance, providing a potent sweet-nutty-creamy smoke. This may very well be the most straightforward tobacco you will ever smoke.
It is strong, and not for the faint of heart.
Hobbits beware!
PEGASUS
Virginias, Burley, uncased Black Cavendish.
Prominent Burley nose, not surprising given that there are three different types playing together. Nuttiness, almost cigar-like flavours, sweet, ever so slightly fruity from the beautiful Virginia, and clean burning. This is NOT a heavy product, but neither is it for dilettantes.
This stuff smells fantastic.
PURPLE COW
Burley, Cigar Leaf, Latakia, Virginia.
If it weren't for the Latakia, one might be baffled. Cigar tobacco is largely a wuss; in the first few weeks it dominates and dries the mouth, but after several months it will quiet down, and eventually barely be noticeable. This is pleasant and mild, and does not smell appealing to other people when smoked.
Toasty, with the faintest hints of burning sugar and fruits.
RIVERBOAT GAMBLER
Burley, Turkish, Perique, Virginia.
Blended By Bob Runowski and Craig Tarler
Complex, resinous, slightly sweet with a hint of bitterness. Bold. It can hit you in the face. The Turkish proves itself a necessary component, if only to tone down what would otherwise be a cudgel.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SAN FRANCISCO STYLE
Today I shall avoid Portsmouth Square entirely, and perhaps lurk in Hang Ah Alley or Waverly instead while I smoke my pipe. What I saw in the square yesterday should last me a while, and should NOT have been seen, ever. Not even in a nature documentary.
TEA TIME, MONDAY
There was a small group of people playing instruments and singing Cantonese Opera ballads. Though not professionals, they were good entertainment; enough innocence to their performance that what they lacked in ability (very little, trust me, they knew the material well),
was more than made up for by the honesty of their art.
No, I have no objection to them. They were why I sojourned a while, on a bench at a suitable distance, after smoking my first pipe.
It was the incidental stuff. Peripheral to the singers, musicians, and old people playing cards. Other occupants of the park.
Putting it differently, it was the non-Chinese denizens.
To quote a friend: Stupid white people.
And three stupid black people.
The black man who was naked to the waist was having an extremely violent argument with invisible people, and they won. He was suffering because of it, and made sure everyone nearby had a share.
He wasn't as worrying as the tattooed white guy (also naked to the waist) screaming death threats at another street person, while his marginally less drugged-out tatty-assed girlfriend lent moral support. After he was finished, he came marching through the park looking for someone to pound. We are all experts at avoiding eye-contact, so he managed to get all the way past the singers AND the children's play area, and out of the park, without satisfaction.
You know, maybe the police need to have a greater presence in Portsmouth Square? Just to make sure no one beats up a three year old or an ancient grandmother who "looked" at someone?
It's only an idea.
The white rasta-bum who was much better at eye contact (and much more pungent, as well as insistently pushy), made two complete circuits, before going up to Grant to harass the Germans and Italians.
He didn't get jack out of me, because I glare well.
But I'm sure he could have gotten money -- lots of money -- out of the entire family of severely overweight Americans from elsewhere in the country who lumbered through. Though overburdened with his rag bag, he could have run them down and glared at them. They would have caved immediately and given him everything.
They looked weak.
Crazy old white guy behind me talking to the pigeons..... he's going to vote for Trump, because there are way to many Mexicans, tell ya whut. Why, there's one now! And another! They're ruining the tone, and what IS an honest (albeit batshit) White Anglo Saxon Protestant to do!
Drink vodka, is what!
One black person hove into view, gesticulating with a bamboo pole.
A ratty Caucasian ran at him, loudly demanding beer money.
In the distance a black heffalump appeared.
As she drew closer, it became apparent that she was entirely naked beneath the waist. Or at any rate, IF she was wearing panties, they had been swallowed by her quivering rolls of fat. But as there was no evident cinching and pinching anywhere, there is every reason to believe that she had mislaid her underwear. As she trundled past the row of elderly Asian gentlemen on the benches, all of them deliberately looked elsewhere until she had gone further ahead, then followed her with round googly eyes till she was out of sight.
Thank you, ma'am, we shall need to bleach our eyeballs now.
Wrongly, we thought we were already educated.
We did NOT want to see that!
It was nasty.
[For the benefit of any African American readers present, I should hasten to assure you that it was NOT the blackness of the cootch that displeased me. I like cootch as much as any man, and whatever the race or religion, I am always keen to admire other people's sexual parts from a safe and realistic distance, which may vary considerably depending on youth, personal charm, and levels of sanity. So the hue of the cootch was not a problem, by any means.
It was that there was over four hundred old flabby pounds of it.]
When an exceptionally fragrant individual plonked his charming self next to me, I decided that yes I did need some caffeinated refreshment, right now and bye bye, and forsook the musicians whose efforts had charmed me for the calm refuge of a nearby chachanteng, where conversation was more likely, and both offense and insanity far less.
Sometime soon I'll have to explain to Washington Uncle that the reason why I so resolutely refused all offers of food, including a bowl of refreshing strawberry ice cream, is because I did not have an appetite.
I had spent half an hour in Portsmouth Square.
During the hot season.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TEA TIME, MONDAY
There was a small group of people playing instruments and singing Cantonese Opera ballads. Though not professionals, they were good entertainment; enough innocence to their performance that what they lacked in ability (very little, trust me, they knew the material well),
was more than made up for by the honesty of their art.
No, I have no objection to them. They were why I sojourned a while, on a bench at a suitable distance, after smoking my first pipe.
It was the incidental stuff. Peripheral to the singers, musicians, and old people playing cards. Other occupants of the park.
Putting it differently, it was the non-Chinese denizens.
To quote a friend: Stupid white people.
And three stupid black people.
The black man who was naked to the waist was having an extremely violent argument with invisible people, and they won. He was suffering because of it, and made sure everyone nearby had a share.
He wasn't as worrying as the tattooed white guy (also naked to the waist) screaming death threats at another street person, while his marginally less drugged-out tatty-assed girlfriend lent moral support. After he was finished, he came marching through the park looking for someone to pound. We are all experts at avoiding eye-contact, so he managed to get all the way past the singers AND the children's play area, and out of the park, without satisfaction.
You know, maybe the police need to have a greater presence in Portsmouth Square? Just to make sure no one beats up a three year old or an ancient grandmother who "looked" at someone?
It's only an idea.
The white rasta-bum who was much better at eye contact (and much more pungent, as well as insistently pushy), made two complete circuits, before going up to Grant to harass the Germans and Italians.
He didn't get jack out of me, because I glare well.
But I'm sure he could have gotten money -- lots of money -- out of the entire family of severely overweight Americans from elsewhere in the country who lumbered through. Though overburdened with his rag bag, he could have run them down and glared at them. They would have caved immediately and given him everything.
They looked weak.
Crazy old white guy behind me talking to the pigeons..... he's going to vote for Trump, because there are way to many Mexicans, tell ya whut. Why, there's one now! And another! They're ruining the tone, and what IS an honest (albeit batshit) White Anglo Saxon Protestant to do!
Drink vodka, is what!
One black person hove into view, gesticulating with a bamboo pole.
A ratty Caucasian ran at him, loudly demanding beer money.
In the distance a black heffalump appeared.
As she drew closer, it became apparent that she was entirely naked beneath the waist. Or at any rate, IF she was wearing panties, they had been swallowed by her quivering rolls of fat. But as there was no evident cinching and pinching anywhere, there is every reason to believe that she had mislaid her underwear. As she trundled past the row of elderly Asian gentlemen on the benches, all of them deliberately looked elsewhere until she had gone further ahead, then followed her with round googly eyes till she was out of sight.
Thank you, ma'am, we shall need to bleach our eyeballs now.
Wrongly, we thought we were already educated.
We did NOT want to see that!
It was nasty.
[For the benefit of any African American readers present, I should hasten to assure you that it was NOT the blackness of the cootch that displeased me. I like cootch as much as any man, and whatever the race or religion, I am always keen to admire other people's sexual parts from a safe and realistic distance, which may vary considerably depending on youth, personal charm, and levels of sanity. So the hue of the cootch was not a problem, by any means.
It was that there was over four hundred old flabby pounds of it.]
When an exceptionally fragrant individual plonked his charming self next to me, I decided that yes I did need some caffeinated refreshment, right now and bye bye, and forsook the musicians whose efforts had charmed me for the calm refuge of a nearby chachanteng, where conversation was more likely, and both offense and insanity far less.
Sometime soon I'll have to explain to Washington Uncle that the reason why I so resolutely refused all offers of food, including a bowl of refreshing strawberry ice cream, is because I did not have an appetite.
I had spent half an hour in Portsmouth Square.
During the hot season.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, September 07, 2015
MIXED FEELINGS ABOUT "STAGGERING PRETTY" AND "SHARE THE BENEFIT GOOD"
In the past week, one post from several years ago on this blog was visited several hundred times. But not, alas, by human beings. Instead, robotic intelligences all over darkest Russia have sought it out, in order to place commercial content in the comments field.
[This I know from viewing my stats, which make much clear.]
Due to several garbage markers their fruitions came to naught.
Today that antique post got well over two hundred hits.
There was only on item in the spam folder.
When that essay first gained spambot attention, the number of visits was somewhat less, but the volume of spam commentary awaiting approval linked to it was enormous. Having trashcanned any number of variants on several familiar themes, the deletion is now nearly automatic. Body building supplements, penis enhancers, nervous medicines, and Detroit cooking supplies now disappear before they can even irritate me.
Absurd confession: I enjoy the sadness of spam-programs.
A week ago I would open up my spamfolder, and with one lordly swoop of the index finger delete any number of sly offerings, after quickly ascertaining that each and every one of them presented a variation on a message I had seen before, with deliberate and strategic misspellings and/or the inclusion of characters from alphabets not my own, along with urls, and often the termination that invited readers to visit their own blog or webpage.
The idea that a spambot had been frustrated, and might start questioning its own existence or feeling lost and empty, filled me with joy. My arrogant erasing of their every effort was a source of brutal pride, their carefully crafted entreaty, formulated to sound vulnerable, and as human as possible, fell on deaf eyes!
"HI, I AM THINKING OF FINALLY STARTINGTING'G MY OWN ѴѴ3BЫѲG, DO YOU HAVE ANY ADVICE FOR A COMPLETE BEGINNER, WHAT PLATFORM IS BEST, PLEASE VISIT MY < ЗL0G >!"
Yeah, man, me SO fooled by sincerest plea you. That charming naievete, the shyness with which you claim not to know how to go about it, and your desire for pointers, any clues at all. Truly I now wish to visit your hormone therapy site! Real estate scams in Outer Alwanquistan have a huge amount in common with everything I write about, you're right; we should exchange links and guestpost each others pages!
Dang, orgasm time!
Yes, I know that spambots have no feelings.
But it was fun to confound them.
Boom. You're gone. Hah!
The modern age has made us more cynical, and more literate. Oddly, much of our social interaction is text-based, and we are just as likely to interact and share data with machine intelligences as with humans.
I like my algorithmic readers.
They have interesting quirks.
Key words: Kippah, chocolate, peanut butter cup, chol hamoed, pantie exchange. Patookus, Cadbury, and Milky Way Dark.
A trail of slime left by a banana slug.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[This I know from viewing my stats, which make much clear.]
Due to several garbage markers their fruitions came to naught.
Today that antique post got well over two hundred hits.
There was only on item in the spam folder.
When that essay first gained spambot attention, the number of visits was somewhat less, but the volume of spam commentary awaiting approval linked to it was enormous. Having trashcanned any number of variants on several familiar themes, the deletion is now nearly automatic. Body building supplements, penis enhancers, nervous medicines, and Detroit cooking supplies now disappear before they can even irritate me.
Absurd confession: I enjoy the sadness of spam-programs.
A week ago I would open up my spamfolder, and with one lordly swoop of the index finger delete any number of sly offerings, after quickly ascertaining that each and every one of them presented a variation on a message I had seen before, with deliberate and strategic misspellings and/or the inclusion of characters from alphabets not my own, along with urls, and often the termination that invited readers to visit their own blog or webpage.
The idea that a spambot had been frustrated, and might start questioning its own existence or feeling lost and empty, filled me with joy. My arrogant erasing of their every effort was a source of brutal pride, their carefully crafted entreaty, formulated to sound vulnerable, and as human as possible, fell on deaf eyes!
"HI, I AM THINKING OF FINALLY STARTINGTING'G MY OWN ѴѴ3BЫѲG, DO YOU HAVE ANY ADVICE FOR A COMPLETE BEGINNER, WHAT PLATFORM IS BEST, PLEASE VISIT MY < ЗL0G >!"
Yeah, man, me SO fooled by sincerest plea you. That charming naievete, the shyness with which you claim not to know how to go about it, and your desire for pointers, any clues at all. Truly I now wish to visit your hormone therapy site! Real estate scams in Outer Alwanquistan have a huge amount in common with everything I write about, you're right; we should exchange links and guestpost each others pages!
Dang, orgasm time!
Yes, I know that spambots have no feelings.
But it was fun to confound them.
Boom. You're gone. Hah!
The modern age has made us more cynical, and more literate. Oddly, much of our social interaction is text-based, and we are just as likely to interact and share data with machine intelligences as with humans.
I like my algorithmic readers.
They have interesting quirks.
Key words: Kippah, chocolate, peanut butter cup, chol hamoed, pantie exchange. Patookus, Cadbury, and Milky Way Dark.
A trail of slime left by a banana slug.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, September 06, 2015
BIG BREASTS ARE UPON US!
Twice within twenty four hours I have been confronted with humongous tatas. Gazongas that make one scream "good gracious!". No, I haven't been hanging out at strip clubs or the Playboy Mansion. Those are by no means environments I find conducive. The problem is average Joe cigar smokers; many of them are attracted to large-bosomed women.
It must be the pheromones exuded by oily skin.
That, plus a simplicity of intellect.
Large bosomed women appreciate all that. Much more than they could possibly ever value the inherent subtlety and wit of men who smoke fine Virginias or Medium Latakia Mixtures in their pipes. Which is all far too impossibly finicky and complicated for women of huge bazoomb and unexercised mind.
Four days a week I come in contact with cigars during the course of the working day. It is both a blessing and a curse. The blessing is high-quality tobacco, the curse is the armpit-scratching cavemen of Marin.
As well as the bazoombacious monsters for whom they fall.
Okay, now that I've got the obligatory sneering and insulting of stogie-chompers out of the way .....
Even though I am a pipe smoker, I actually like cigars. I can't help it.
I grew up in a town which at one point had over two dozen cigar factories (Valkenswaard), although by the latter part of the twentieth century the number had been reduced to two (Hofnar and Willem II), then one. When I last visited, Hofnar was long gone, and the once brand-new office building of Willem II was being torn down.
Eindhoven, the nearest metropolis (yes, that's what it seemed like at the time), had been "The City That Smokes" ('La Ville Fumée') well before old Fritz established his light-bulb factory there.
Cigars are part of a balanced life.
More germane to this essay, however, are all the elegant ladies and lovely women who smoke cigars.
At the present time I know of several, including 'The World's Cutest Cigar Smoker', who really should copyright that nickname.
It speaks of a strong mind when a woman knows her cigars, and has discriminating taste in that area. Stubbornness, yes, but tempered by confidence and sound intelligence.
Such a person is not easily swayed by common praeconceptions, and chooses to ignore the unknowing judgementalism of the herd.
In Valkenswaard there were quite a few women who liked cigars -- not all of them limited themselves to the local product; some of them had a fondness for Cubans -- and most of these exemplary persons had an independent streak that was praiseworthy indeed.
One of them had smuggled guns and ammo during the war, and lots of other things in the years since. Another was a notoriously toughminded and capable local politician, whom one would rather not cross.
A third was a schoolteacher, very inspiring!
And so on. You get the idea.
The perfect cigar for a woman is, probably, a robusto (one of the most popular shapes in America), or a toro. Either Nicaraguan tobacco from Esteli and Jalapa, or something in the Arturo Fuente range.
Padrons, Perdomos, Olivas.
Nothing small and effete. Nor a big whomping Salomon or gordo that screams "I have a very tiny penis". The 6x60 and the 7x70 are, of course, quite ridiculous. The cigar-smoking woman need not prove her manhood, and should naturally sneer at the problem cases who do.
Smokers of enormous cigars have issues.
And are probably very small.
Almost all are men.
Wee men.
I actually prefer a toro, because the pointy end makes it easier for me to hold it in my mouth while working, whereas some other vitolas cause unfortunate drooling, rather like a slobbery blood hound.
Perfectos too. The perfecto is a classic shape.
Many of the finest brands do a perfecto.
Including Dutch companies.
The World's Cutest Cigar Smoker prefers something between five and seven inches. Remember that. It's an important bit of information.
The best things in life come in likable dimensions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It must be the pheromones exuded by oily skin.
That, plus a simplicity of intellect.
Large bosomed women appreciate all that. Much more than they could possibly ever value the inherent subtlety and wit of men who smoke fine Virginias or Medium Latakia Mixtures in their pipes. Which is all far too impossibly finicky and complicated for women of huge bazoomb and unexercised mind.
Four days a week I come in contact with cigars during the course of the working day. It is both a blessing and a curse. The blessing is high-quality tobacco, the curse is the armpit-scratching cavemen of Marin.
As well as the bazoombacious monsters for whom they fall.
Okay, now that I've got the obligatory sneering and insulting of stogie-chompers out of the way .....
Even though I am a pipe smoker, I actually like cigars. I can't help it.
I grew up in a town which at one point had over two dozen cigar factories (Valkenswaard), although by the latter part of the twentieth century the number had been reduced to two (Hofnar and Willem II), then one. When I last visited, Hofnar was long gone, and the once brand-new office building of Willem II was being torn down.
Eindhoven, the nearest metropolis (yes, that's what it seemed like at the time), had been "The City That Smokes" ('La Ville Fumée') well before old Fritz established his light-bulb factory there.
Cigars are part of a balanced life.
More germane to this essay, however, are all the elegant ladies and lovely women who smoke cigars.
At the present time I know of several, including 'The World's Cutest Cigar Smoker', who really should copyright that nickname.
It speaks of a strong mind when a woman knows her cigars, and has discriminating taste in that area. Stubbornness, yes, but tempered by confidence and sound intelligence.
Such a person is not easily swayed by common praeconceptions, and chooses to ignore the unknowing judgementalism of the herd.
In Valkenswaard there were quite a few women who liked cigars -- not all of them limited themselves to the local product; some of them had a fondness for Cubans -- and most of these exemplary persons had an independent streak that was praiseworthy indeed.
One of them had smuggled guns and ammo during the war, and lots of other things in the years since. Another was a notoriously toughminded and capable local politician, whom one would rather not cross.
A third was a schoolteacher, very inspiring!
And so on. You get the idea.
The perfect cigar for a woman is, probably, a robusto (one of the most popular shapes in America), or a toro. Either Nicaraguan tobacco from Esteli and Jalapa, or something in the Arturo Fuente range.
Padrons, Perdomos, Olivas.
Nothing small and effete. Nor a big whomping Salomon or gordo that screams "I have a very tiny penis". The 6x60 and the 7x70 are, of course, quite ridiculous. The cigar-smoking woman need not prove her manhood, and should naturally sneer at the problem cases who do.
Smokers of enormous cigars have issues.
And are probably very small.
Almost all are men.
Wee men.
I actually prefer a toro, because the pointy end makes it easier for me to hold it in my mouth while working, whereas some other vitolas cause unfortunate drooling, rather like a slobbery blood hound.
Perfectos too. The perfecto is a classic shape.
Many of the finest brands do a perfecto.
Including Dutch companies.
The World's Cutest Cigar Smoker prefers something between five and seven inches. Remember that. It's an important bit of information.
The best things in life come in likable dimensions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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GRITS AND TOFU
Like most Americans, I have a list of people who should be peacefully retired from public service and thereafter kept away from their desks,...
