One of my favourite movie scenes is the over-the-top shoot-out that culminates the action in A Better Tomorrow 2. The movie was made nearly twenty years ago by director John Woo and producer Tsui Hark, featuring Chow Yun-fat, Ti Lung, and Leslie Cheung, with Ko Ying-pui as the evil gangboss, and Lau Siu-ming as the police inspector.
The good guys basically blast a hundred gunslinging goons into the afterlife in a climactic battle at a mansion. Operatic, poetry in motion, and totally, heroically, maximum boffo. A grand bloodsplatter masterpiece.
This was preceded, early in the film, by a dramatic firefight in a New York apartment building that resembled the interior of several of the flea-bag hotels in Northbeach and SF Chinatown, as well as the iconic "Rice Is My Life" speech in a Chinese restaurant run by Chow, when two hoodlums try to extort protection money.
"This f*ckin' fried rice stinks!"
Au risque de me prendre des baffes, that fried rice probably did stink.
It was prepared to the specific tastes of the typical Chinese Restaurant demographic, which, outside of a Chinese neighborhood, usually consists of cheapazoid kwailo douchebags from Suburbia (or snooty wasp food snobs), who know bugger-all about good eating in general.
Chinese cuisine in particular.
Consider the most popular dishes on the menu at that nice place down the street. Sweet and sour pork. General Chow's Chicken. Shrimp-fried rice. Hot and Sour Soup. Kung Pao Shoeleather. Brocolli Beef. Something With Cashews. Et autres qui sont soigneusement répulsive.
These are all things eaten by white people. Sometimes Cantonese people will eat them too, especially if that restaurant does a dynamite rendition and their children are very Americanized, but they are not dishes which the average native of Hong Kong or Guangzhou will seek out.
Although they will often suggest them to Mandarin speakers.
Because Northern Chinese don't know any better.
There is, however, an overlap where Cantonese and white people do have similar tastes: Singapore Rice-noodles, Yangchow Fried Rice, Charsiu Pork. Salt and pepper chicken wings.
And dim sum.
[My Caucasian American readers should please not be offended; the Europeans and the Japanese have even worse taste, as they are accustomed to "Chinese" food with electric red and orange sugar sauces. But on the other hand, Hunanese restaurants in San Francisco which also offer brown rice are catering specifically to sniffy ignorant boobs who wouldn't know beans if it came up and bit them in the arse.]
Yesterday a customer at one of my favourite inexpensive Chinatown eateries demanded to know whether there was gluten in the food.
What I had on my plate at the time was steamed chicken bun, pork siumai, and, to shake it up a little, some fried potstickers.
The latter are a very tasty abomination.
麵筋
['min gan']
The proprietress speaks English very badly, and gluten is not part of her non-Chinese vocabulary. As the only person there at that time with any real facility in English, I stepped in and explained that there was gluten in several of the steamed dishes (and everything on my plate), as well as present in rather large quantity in the wonton noodle soup and the baked items. And in any case trace amounts of gluten normally show up in many cooking ingredients or condiments. The kitchen, like any kitchen, really, was NOT a wheat-free environment.
Perhaps she should simply have some rice soup?
"But I positively hate rice!"
You know, there are times when the utter stupidity of people completely floors me. Gluten-phobic dingos are bad enough, but expecting that their idiotic food fetishes will be coddled, and also wanting to avoid rice, in the middle of Chinatown, at an eatery which clearly caters to Chinese people (who usually adhere to neither of those neuroses), is perhaps the acme of dingleberry.
Exclaiming "I hate rice" in a whiny tone in a restaurant run by and for Chinese people is just not diplomatic, and gives a bad impression of your personality and intelligence.
Dim sum and Chinese baked goods are not for you.
Please go back to Marin or Berkeley.
We have our own nuts.
My repast was utterly delightful. Steamed chicken bun, pork siumai, and fried potstickers. I even had a jin dui afterwards. The dough for which is made with glutinous rice flour. It is deep fried, and rolled sesame seeds.
She could have had that; no actual gluten, despite the name.
Oh wait ... it contains rice!
Aaaack!
AFTER THOUGHT
Other cuisines which make enormous use of rice and gluten are Japanese, Korean, Indian, Persian, French, Spanish, Italian, English, and Mexican. The only hope for people who hate such things is Paleo-Codswallop.
Good luck finding a Paleo-Codswallopian restaurant.
Perhaps there is one in Marin.
Or Berkeley.
I'm heading off to eat in an hour or two.
Guess where I'm going.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
PALIN ENDORSES TRUMP
Sarah Palin has endorsed Donald Trump for president. Yes, I know that that is the perfect example of everything wrong with our country, and that it speaks volumes about the deep pockets of insanity and stupidity in the great Christian hinterland, as well as the madness of the multitudes.
But it gives me great satisfaction.
I am giggling.
Both of those individuals exemplify everything rotten among Republicans. Putting them together in one sentence is like a kind of written black hole.
There is no punch line, they are the punch line.
Somewhere in Republicanistan, people are having orgasms.
This time, non-familial.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But it gives me great satisfaction.
I am giggling.
Both of those individuals exemplify everything rotten among Republicans. Putting them together in one sentence is like a kind of written black hole.
There is no punch line, they are the punch line.
Somewhere in Republicanistan, people are having orgasms.
This time, non-familial.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION
It seems like most news articles nowadays mention racism, discrimination, or outright bigotry against various groups. Particularly if the actual subject is Donald Trump. But, of course, the Republican Party and European nativists also get their share of highlighting.
It's a bit disheartening at times. No, I'm not going to pull a namby-pamby "why can't we all just get along" thing, nor encourage my readers to "love everyone".
I myself do not love everyone.
Instead, I'm going to celebrate my own personal diversity by presenting a short list of people and groups that I hate, loathe, or despise, and would really like to see come a cropper.
In no particular order:
Ammon Bundy, Donald Trump, Texas, De Kommunistiese Eenheid Nederland Marxisten Leninisten (and its veterans now underground in De Socialistische Partij), Pegida, the ANC, anti-vaxxers, Southern Baptist Christianity, vegans, owners of rugged macho cars, food-missionaries, gun nuts, gun control freaks, e-yuppies, anti-smokers, parents of spoiled brats, dog-owners who don't pick up, little baggies of poo, health food, white folks who worship tofu, chihuahas, cigars with ridiculous macho names, pot smokers, religious nuts (most of the Deep South, large parts of the Mid-West, and rabid pockets on both coasts), aromatic pipe tobaccos, flavoured coffee, all herbal teas, macrobiotic anything, and racists (most of the Deep South, large parts of the Mid-West, and rabid pockets on both coasts).
I've probably left out well over a hundred other things that make me ill.
Lets face it, I am a hate-filled man, and there is much I despise.
But most of the time I don't think about these things.
Instead, I am usually thinking of nice bright cheerful things, like milk-tea, snackies, flowers, furry animals, sex, Latakia tobacco, aged Virginias (with or without Perique as one of the significant components of the blend), fine peaty Scotch whisky, semi-fermented teas, women, surface feel, brush-strokes showing tension and controlled termination, shades of ink and the spotty flecks where the brush skipped over the texture of the paper, angles, curves, symmetry, dimension, warmth, contrasting hues in wood grain, semi-translucent depth that indicates old briar, Nabokov, O. Henry, H. H. Munro, Rudyard Kipling, fatty pork, fried food, dim sum, rambunctious stuffed animals, soft hands, sparkling eyes, intense blues and greens, lovely breasts, baked goods and flaky pastries, Holland, Hong Kong, the Philippines, weird things I've recently read, and stuff to look up either on Wikipedia or in various foreign language dictionaries.
It is a pity that news articles seldom mention these.
The world would be a far better place if the media catered more to vibrant middle-aged pipe smokers. As, I am sure upon reflection, you will agree.
I never think about parking. I live in San Francisco, it just isn't an issue.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It's a bit disheartening at times. No, I'm not going to pull a namby-pamby "why can't we all just get along" thing, nor encourage my readers to "love everyone".
I myself do not love everyone.
Instead, I'm going to celebrate my own personal diversity by presenting a short list of people and groups that I hate, loathe, or despise, and would really like to see come a cropper.
In no particular order:
Ammon Bundy, Donald Trump, Texas, De Kommunistiese Eenheid Nederland Marxisten Leninisten (and its veterans now underground in De Socialistische Partij), Pegida, the ANC, anti-vaxxers, Southern Baptist Christianity, vegans, owners of rugged macho cars, food-missionaries, gun nuts, gun control freaks, e-yuppies, anti-smokers, parents of spoiled brats, dog-owners who don't pick up, little baggies of poo, health food, white folks who worship tofu, chihuahas, cigars with ridiculous macho names, pot smokers, religious nuts (most of the Deep South, large parts of the Mid-West, and rabid pockets on both coasts), aromatic pipe tobaccos, flavoured coffee, all herbal teas, macrobiotic anything, and racists (most of the Deep South, large parts of the Mid-West, and rabid pockets on both coasts).
I've probably left out well over a hundred other things that make me ill.
Lets face it, I am a hate-filled man, and there is much I despise.
But most of the time I don't think about these things.
Instead, I am usually thinking of nice bright cheerful things, like milk-tea, snackies, flowers, furry animals, sex, Latakia tobacco, aged Virginias (with or without Perique as one of the significant components of the blend), fine peaty Scotch whisky, semi-fermented teas, women, surface feel, brush-strokes showing tension and controlled termination, shades of ink and the spotty flecks where the brush skipped over the texture of the paper, angles, curves, symmetry, dimension, warmth, contrasting hues in wood grain, semi-translucent depth that indicates old briar, Nabokov, O. Henry, H. H. Munro, Rudyard Kipling, fatty pork, fried food, dim sum, rambunctious stuffed animals, soft hands, sparkling eyes, intense blues and greens, lovely breasts, baked goods and flaky pastries, Holland, Hong Kong, the Philippines, weird things I've recently read, and stuff to look up either on Wikipedia or in various foreign language dictionaries.
It is a pity that news articles seldom mention these.
The world would be a far better place if the media catered more to vibrant middle-aged pipe smokers. As, I am sure upon reflection, you will agree.
I never think about parking. I live in San Francisco, it just isn't an issue.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 18, 2016
THE PLAN
This blogger is seriously looking forward to puttering around for the next two days. Much of it indoors, except for several hours during which the apartment will need airing out after tobacco has been used. But I am really fortunate; one of the people I know is greeted home by his loving wife every time he has been smoking cigars with the boys in the backroom with the words "pee-ew, you stink!"
They're still married, so I suppose that qualifies as love talk. I have told him he should respond by saying "I'm sorry your feet smell".
Frankly, I too find the strong odour of cigars somewhat oppressive. Because proper men, naturally, smell like good quality pipe tobacco. That's just the way it is. There have been times I followed another gentleman down the street because of the magic in his pipe.
[Two blends stand out in that regard: Gawith Hoggarth's Balkan Mixture, and Greg Pease's Haddo's Delight. Nope, no one knows who the heck Haddo was. Probably an old grouch. The first mentioned has an intoxicating pong of Latakia, the second smells like the stout blends of the past, before stinkipoo aromatics took over.]
Rational people honestly do not mind the aroma.
My apartment mate, who years ago occasionally called me "Stinky Man" seldom says anything about my personal wuft. Perhaps she really doesn't notice. All is fine with the world as long as her Teddy Bear does not end up reeking of smoke.
Which means that I close her door firmly when she leaves for work, open windows, and light up. That's five or more hours of freedom. At least three hours of airing out is needed for the smell to dissipate, best four or more. She comes home after seven P.M., so after two-thirty in the afternoon further indulgence will be outside.
Where it is probably going to rain. Much like it did today.
This beast lives under his umbrella on his days off.
Somewhere there WILL be a cup of tea.
There must be.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
They're still married, so I suppose that qualifies as love talk. I have told him he should respond by saying "I'm sorry your feet smell".
Frankly, I too find the strong odour of cigars somewhat oppressive. Because proper men, naturally, smell like good quality pipe tobacco. That's just the way it is. There have been times I followed another gentleman down the street because of the magic in his pipe.
[Two blends stand out in that regard: Gawith Hoggarth's Balkan Mixture, and Greg Pease's Haddo's Delight. Nope, no one knows who the heck Haddo was. Probably an old grouch. The first mentioned has an intoxicating pong of Latakia, the second smells like the stout blends of the past, before stinkipoo aromatics took over.]
Rational people honestly do not mind the aroma.
My apartment mate, who years ago occasionally called me "Stinky Man" seldom says anything about my personal wuft. Perhaps she really doesn't notice. All is fine with the world as long as her Teddy Bear does not end up reeking of smoke.
Which means that I close her door firmly when she leaves for work, open windows, and light up. That's five or more hours of freedom. At least three hours of airing out is needed for the smell to dissipate, best four or more. She comes home after seven P.M., so after two-thirty in the afternoon further indulgence will be outside.
Where it is probably going to rain. Much like it did today.
This beast lives under his umbrella on his days off.
Somewhere there WILL be a cup of tea.
There must be.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
ALL OF IT IN VIVID SHIFTING HUES
Yesterday's lunch influenced last night's dreams. They were lurid.
Coffee, milk tea, pipe tobacco. Quarreling stuffed animals. The blue jeans she was wearing on the bus. A bakery with delicious greasy flaky pastry and a table-full of Hokkien gentlemen chatting. Rain, soft light, drapes, slat blinds. A small stuffed cat stealing my wallet; "I ... found it!" Liar. Various jars of aging leaf. A long pony tail. Great Red Robe, a tea of which to be very fond. A restored pipe of surpassing excellence. Intelligent face.
Manga about a defective vampire.
Two dozen pencil trays.
Cedar.
The parameters of bachelor living.
It's only a mild bout of gout.
I will not let it win.
It was a burrito con carnitas y queso, sin frijoles. With guacamole and nuclear salsa on the side. Consumed around tea time.
This blogger is seriously fond of carnitas.
I regret nothing.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Coffee, milk tea, pipe tobacco. Quarreling stuffed animals. The blue jeans she was wearing on the bus. A bakery with delicious greasy flaky pastry and a table-full of Hokkien gentlemen chatting. Rain, soft light, drapes, slat blinds. A small stuffed cat stealing my wallet; "I ... found it!" Liar. Various jars of aging leaf. A long pony tail. Great Red Robe, a tea of which to be very fond. A restored pipe of surpassing excellence. Intelligent face.
Manga about a defective vampire.
Two dozen pencil trays.
Cedar.
The parameters of bachelor living.
It's only a mild bout of gout.
I will not let it win.
It was a burrito con carnitas y queso, sin frijoles. With guacamole and nuclear salsa on the side. Consumed around tea time.
This blogger is seriously fond of carnitas.
I regret nothing.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 17, 2016
THE FRIGHTFUL WORD
At a place on the other side of the bridge where I work several days a week, the reproductive locution was utilized several times in various different ways by one of the gentlemen smoking cigars. So, after a crescendo of F-related vituperation, I hollered back there that they should chill out.
I am an expressive and fertile-minded person, and do not appreciate certain favourite verbs being used in vulgar fashion.
Effing, between two people who passionately lust after each other, OR a couple who simply enjoy each other's cozy presence immensely, can be a very nice thing. Please do not cheapen the concept by using its verb as a facile equivalent of damnation.
If that is what you cannot help saying, perhaps you do not deserve the privilege of huffing stogies with the boys.
As a pipe smoker, I am sometimes impatient with those fellows.
They're a frightfully crude and vulgar lot.
Not thoughtful at all.
That said, I do somewhat admire the Irish gift for employing the word in creative and lyrical fashion. It does sound better with a brogue. James Joyce, a most peculiar looking fellow and an Irishman with the gift of scribbling gab, was, not coincidentally, a pipe smoker, by the way.
His use of the 'F' word, most especially in his private correspondence, is both startling and perverse, reflecting a disgusting side to his soul.
His amorous tendencies were over-the-top depraved.
About which the less said the far better.
Imagine it Hibernianly.
The Irish climate being what it is, and with central heating memorable by its absence in soggy bog-island buildings, more so than in England, the Irish attitude to 'F' is unique. It's probably the only warmth they truly enjoy.
Naturally they need to express it, the poor sodding bastards.
F this, F that, for F's sake, and effing all around.
It's very triumphalist of them.
Here in San Francisco we can be more choosy and circumspect about our expressions. The fact that many San Franciscans aren't is neither here nor there. What matters is that the blessing of central heating and decent clothing allows us that discretion if we choose.
Oh, and drapes. Very important.
The idea that two people could commit 'F' together but neither expose nor exhibit their doing so is immensely heartening. I like the fact that I do not know 'F' all about the sex-lives of my friends, and that they share not one single aspect or iota. Some of them are indeed "the cutest couple", but they act like perfectly well-brought-up people in public.
Unless it ads oomph and clarity to the sentence, uttering it expletively is in immense bad taste. Do so sparingly, consider the effect.
'F' is a private matter.
I thoroughly enjoy James Joyce's entire oeuvre, if you really want to know.
But that is a private matter that we shall not discuss.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I am an expressive and fertile-minded person, and do not appreciate certain favourite verbs being used in vulgar fashion.
Effing, between two people who passionately lust after each other, OR a couple who simply enjoy each other's cozy presence immensely, can be a very nice thing. Please do not cheapen the concept by using its verb as a facile equivalent of damnation.
If that is what you cannot help saying, perhaps you do not deserve the privilege of huffing stogies with the boys.
As a pipe smoker, I am sometimes impatient with those fellows.
They're a frightfully crude and vulgar lot.
Not thoughtful at all.
That said, I do somewhat admire the Irish gift for employing the word in creative and lyrical fashion. It does sound better with a brogue. James Joyce, a most peculiar looking fellow and an Irishman with the gift of scribbling gab, was, not coincidentally, a pipe smoker, by the way.
His use of the 'F' word, most especially in his private correspondence, is both startling and perverse, reflecting a disgusting side to his soul.
His amorous tendencies were over-the-top depraved.
About which the less said the far better.
Imagine it Hibernianly.
The Irish climate being what it is, and with central heating memorable by its absence in soggy bog-island buildings, more so than in England, the Irish attitude to 'F' is unique. It's probably the only warmth they truly enjoy.
Naturally they need to express it, the poor sodding bastards.
F this, F that, for F's sake, and effing all around.
It's very triumphalist of them.
Here in San Francisco we can be more choosy and circumspect about our expressions. The fact that many San Franciscans aren't is neither here nor there. What matters is that the blessing of central heating and decent clothing allows us that discretion if we choose.
Oh, and drapes. Very important.
The idea that two people could commit 'F' together but neither expose nor exhibit their doing so is immensely heartening. I like the fact that I do not know 'F' all about the sex-lives of my friends, and that they share not one single aspect or iota. Some of them are indeed "the cutest couple", but they act like perfectly well-brought-up people in public.
Unless it ads oomph and clarity to the sentence, uttering it expletively is in immense bad taste. Do so sparingly, consider the effect.
'F' is a private matter.
I thoroughly enjoy James Joyce's entire oeuvre, if you really want to know.
But that is a private matter that we shall not discuss.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
GOOD FOR ALL KINDS OF BUNDYING
Like many of you, I have been scouring the news to find out what Ammon Bundy up in Oregon has done with the fifty five gallon drum of personal lubricant that got sent to him and his boys as a "suggestion". You'll recall that Max Temkin, co-founder of Cards Against Humanity, decided that the boys in Malheur needed some help digesting the several hundred dildoes and vibrators that well-wishers had donated to their little land-grabbing ammosexual he-man commune.
What did they do with the personal lubricant?!?
My friend the book seller is convinced that they're using it to fry-up roadkill. Which is an educated guess. Before their friends sent them rubber toys, they were desperate. They begged for help and attention on their facebook pages and in viral videos.
While I like that theory, it has to be wrong. Reason being that what with packing guns and ammo, along with the batteries for their authentic ranch cellular devices (selfies!), beard-grooming supplies, and those impressive cowboy hats, they probably forgot to bring frypans.
Besides, they're all old-fashioned guys, who hold no truck with modern-fangled luxuries like personal lubricant; like their fathers before them, they use rendered animal grease.
Suet or tallow; it's good for any number of purposes.
Applied topically it will loosen the stiff joints.
Good for those bags under the eyes.
Soothing to ranch hands.
No chafing.
A man has gotta do something in the freezing Oregon cold.
Might as well make it a totally Bundy experience.
Bundy till you drop.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
What did they do with the personal lubricant?!?
My friend the book seller is convinced that they're using it to fry-up roadkill. Which is an educated guess. Before their friends sent them rubber toys, they were desperate. They begged for help and attention on their facebook pages and in viral videos.
While I like that theory, it has to be wrong. Reason being that what with packing guns and ammo, along with the batteries for their authentic ranch cellular devices (selfies!), beard-grooming supplies, and those impressive cowboy hats, they probably forgot to bring frypans.
Besides, they're all old-fashioned guys, who hold no truck with modern-fangled luxuries like personal lubricant; like their fathers before them, they use rendered animal grease.
Suet or tallow; it's good for any number of purposes.
Applied topically it will loosen the stiff joints.
Good for those bags under the eyes.
Soothing to ranch hands.
No chafing.
A man has gotta do something in the freezing Oregon cold.
Might as well make it a totally Bundy experience.
Bundy till you drop.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, January 16, 2016
A GOOD APPETITE FOR FOOD
Not a classic beauty by any means. But cute as the dickens. Adorable.
And also charming. Unfortunately I do not know her, I merely got to see her interacting with a relative and a neighbor on the bus.
I quite enjoyed my trip to Chinatown for dinner yesterday afternoon.
I had gotten on at Clay and Polk, as did she, and when the bus stopped at Larkin Street I moved to the back of the bus to give an old person my seat.
I always feel guilty about sitting in those seats -- and fervently dislike the manspreading that is usually visible when some young tweak-head sits opposite texting -- so whenever possible I head further in.
Which sometimes is a wonderful thing.
She's short, has a very nice smile, and a face that shows character and a very lively intelligence. I can imagine how enjoyable it must be to sit at the same table with her, eating tasty food.
Unfortunately, I did not do that. Perhaps next time I should ask her out for some cake and coffee, or something.
A DISTURBANCE IN THE FORCE
Dinner itself was good, apart from a reality-challenged woman on the other side of the room, whom everybody studiously ignored. A thin elderly lady with a strong Filipina accent, whose frequent squawking followed a precise formula: "they are putting poison in ---- and they are selling it right now!"
She vocalized with a note twixt outrage and happy discovery.
"The Russians are putting poison in green tee-shirts; and they are selling it right now!"
"The government is putting poison in hats; and they are selling it right now!"
"The Chinese put poison in the sugar; they are selling it right now!"
"The city ..... and they sell it, right now!"
"The church ..... right now!"
And so forth.
She also mentioned white tee-shirts, parkas, cake, kleenex, forks, blue socks, underwear, sweaters, pajama bottoms, and ice cream. Normally these are all good things, but if she's speaking the truth, there may be eventual problems.
She herself was not visibly encumbered with any of the items she listed, and none of them were available at the cha-chanteng in any case.
I had gone there strictly for sustenance.
Baked Portuguese chicken rice (enough for two people), Hong Kong milk-tea, Sriracha hotsauce, and regular tea. All salted with Aunt Batty's loud utterances. Startling the first few times, surreal thereafter.
I really enjoyed my meal.
I ate far too much.
Kept thinking of the young woman on the bus. She's really very nice.
I hope I run into her again.
AFTER THOUGHT 1. -- She looked totally huggable and neat-o with her spectacles, clean comfy jeans, and pale blue backpack, precisely the kind of woman whom one would feel confident bringing home to meet the parents. Not that that is an issue, and the cigar lounge is not really a substitute, but if the opportunity presents itself, I would hope that my friends there do not embarrass me.
AFTER THOUGHT 2. -- That's three times in as many weeks that I've been to that cha-chanteng on a Friday. Next week I'll probably go somewhere else, to have roast duck over rice.
AFTER THOUGHT 3. -- Rainy weather is delightfully moody, apropos of nothing. Imagine being indoors, with the street noises muted, enjoying a long lazy afternoon.
AFTER THOUGHT 4. -- Tonight's dinner was fried nuclear waste-dump chorizo, gonpoy noodles, tomatoes, ginger, and hotsauce.
Let's see what happens.
AFTER THOUGHT 5. -- Heading over to the cigar lounge soon.
Sure hope no one is screaming at the television.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And also charming. Unfortunately I do not know her, I merely got to see her interacting with a relative and a neighbor on the bus.
I quite enjoyed my trip to Chinatown for dinner yesterday afternoon.
I had gotten on at Clay and Polk, as did she, and when the bus stopped at Larkin Street I moved to the back of the bus to give an old person my seat.
I always feel guilty about sitting in those seats -- and fervently dislike the manspreading that is usually visible when some young tweak-head sits opposite texting -- so whenever possible I head further in.
Which sometimes is a wonderful thing.
She's short, has a very nice smile, and a face that shows character and a very lively intelligence. I can imagine how enjoyable it must be to sit at the same table with her, eating tasty food.
Unfortunately, I did not do that. Perhaps next time I should ask her out for some cake and coffee, or something.
A DISTURBANCE IN THE FORCE
Dinner itself was good, apart from a reality-challenged woman on the other side of the room, whom everybody studiously ignored. A thin elderly lady with a strong Filipina accent, whose frequent squawking followed a precise formula: "they are putting poison in ---- and they are selling it right now!"
She vocalized with a note twixt outrage and happy discovery.
"The Russians are putting poison in green tee-shirts; and they are selling it right now!"
"The government is putting poison in hats; and they are selling it right now!"
"The Chinese put poison in the sugar; they are selling it right now!"
"The city ..... and they sell it, right now!"
"The church ..... right now!"
And so forth.
She also mentioned white tee-shirts, parkas, cake, kleenex, forks, blue socks, underwear, sweaters, pajama bottoms, and ice cream. Normally these are all good things, but if she's speaking the truth, there may be eventual problems.
She herself was not visibly encumbered with any of the items she listed, and none of them were available at the cha-chanteng in any case.
I had gone there strictly for sustenance.
Baked Portuguese chicken rice (enough for two people), Hong Kong milk-tea, Sriracha hotsauce, and regular tea. All salted with Aunt Batty's loud utterances. Startling the first few times, surreal thereafter.
I really enjoyed my meal.
I ate far too much.
Kept thinking of the young woman on the bus. She's really very nice.
I hope I run into her again.
AFTER THOUGHT 1. -- She looked totally huggable and neat-o with her spectacles, clean comfy jeans, and pale blue backpack, precisely the kind of woman whom one would feel confident bringing home to meet the parents. Not that that is an issue, and the cigar lounge is not really a substitute, but if the opportunity presents itself, I would hope that my friends there do not embarrass me.
AFTER THOUGHT 2. -- That's three times in as many weeks that I've been to that cha-chanteng on a Friday. Next week I'll probably go somewhere else, to have roast duck over rice.
AFTER THOUGHT 3. -- Rainy weather is delightfully moody, apropos of nothing. Imagine being indoors, with the street noises muted, enjoying a long lazy afternoon.
AFTER THOUGHT 4. -- Tonight's dinner was fried nuclear waste-dump chorizo, gonpoy noodles, tomatoes, ginger, and hotsauce.
Let's see what happens.
AFTER THOUGHT 5. -- Heading over to the cigar lounge soon.
Sure hope no one is screaming at the television.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, January 15, 2016
THE THREE PIECE TOOL
Imagine that you are surrounded by pipe-smoking gentlemen having a very restrained aesthetic orgy. Meaning that they are politely but intensely admiring each other's shiny pieces of wood. Or rugged rusticated wood. Veins, wood grains, and nicely rounded shapes.
Yes, the recent meeting of the local pipe club. Which is something that most non-pipesmoking persons might find a daunting prospect.
Peculiar objects, and odd smells.
One of the most berserk mixtures stuffed into a pipe last night was Peterson's Connoisseur's Choice, which is a revolting, pungent and unbearably fruity blend of Black Cavendish, Golden and Red Virginia, mixed with luxury broken flake. The putrid combo of Tropical fruit, Vanilla & Rum make this blend ......
Urk!
And 'eep!'
The gentleman indulging in this perversion informed me that at his local tobacconist, one of the owners has banned Latakia mixtures, because of unresolved childhood issues from when she was still married to a lizard. Whose Latakia odour infected the storeroom, bathroom, and sheets. At least I think he explained it that way, I was too busy gagging at the smell and shuddering at the heresy of banning Latakia to listen attentively.
I spent a large part of the evening defending more restrained aromatics, like Erinmore Flake or Samuel Gawith's 1792 Flake. Normally I have few good words to say about the perfumed tarts of the tobacco world, but flavoured tobacco is the largest category of pipe-weed sold, and even so severe a puritan as Gregory Pease has guiltily dabbled in them.
No, I have not smoked his latest creation: Virginia Cream.
Not planning to either. He should feel unclean now.
Erinmore and 1792 are all you really need.
Still, I am rather curious.
I hear it's good.
THE CZECH TOOL
The topic of discussion for the evening did not excite me, that being the humble pipe tamper, of which there are innumerable varieties that all serve the same purpose: tamping down the crown of fire at the top of the bowl as the smoke progresses, so that it will burn evenly and continue doing so all the way down.
One person made the mistake of criticising the Czech Tool.
Gentlemen, the Czech Tool is absolutely the greatest thing to ever come out of Eastern Europe, the one product or invention that puts the Slavic bog on the map. It is the ONLY reason the Czech Republic was admitted to the United Nations and the European Union. With their military armed primarily with this simple and functional object, they are capable of resisting vast invasions by Russians, Huns, and Turks. And it is an elegant object! Even James Bond uses it. The reason why you don't remember him doing so is because it is subtle and understated. It is a stealth accoutrement par excellence.
That air of intellectual superiority that geniuses such as Bertrand Russel, Georges Simenon, Whatsisbucket Tolkien, and Franz Kafka exude?
It is the Czech Tool.
Simply possessing a Czech Tool marks one as a man of the world, capable of taking on any contingency, and a darn sexy beast.
I have three dozen of them.
More or less.
[New Zealand was also briefly discussed. The consensus is that we should visit before the hobbit is hunted to extinction, and eat one before that is banned.]
Wine was drunk. And tea, lots of tea. Salami, cheese, French bread, and one tomato were consumed. Several nice pipe tobaccos were smoked.
Three of us repaired to a cigar bar afterwards, where we calmly and thoughtfully smoked some more. We were quite unlike the cigar-huffing cretins surrounding us, whose giddy excitement and girlish middle-aged men squeals made it hard to hear oneself think at times.
Purely a matter of gravitas.
Germain & Son Perique Mixture. MacBarens Dark Twist from 2008. Dunhill Ready Rubbed. McClelland Balkan Blue.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yes, the recent meeting of the local pipe club. Which is something that most non-pipesmoking persons might find a daunting prospect.
Peculiar objects, and odd smells.
One of the most berserk mixtures stuffed into a pipe last night was Peterson's Connoisseur's Choice, which is a revolting, pungent and unbearably fruity blend of Black Cavendish, Golden and Red Virginia, mixed with luxury broken flake. The putrid combo of Tropical fruit, Vanilla & Rum make this blend ......
Urk!
And 'eep!'
The gentleman indulging in this perversion informed me that at his local tobacconist, one of the owners has banned Latakia mixtures, because of unresolved childhood issues from when she was still married to a lizard. Whose Latakia odour infected the storeroom, bathroom, and sheets. At least I think he explained it that way, I was too busy gagging at the smell and shuddering at the heresy of banning Latakia to listen attentively.
I spent a large part of the evening defending more restrained aromatics, like Erinmore Flake or Samuel Gawith's 1792 Flake. Normally I have few good words to say about the perfumed tarts of the tobacco world, but flavoured tobacco is the largest category of pipe-weed sold, and even so severe a puritan as Gregory Pease has guiltily dabbled in them.
No, I have not smoked his latest creation: Virginia Cream.
Not planning to either. He should feel unclean now.
Erinmore and 1792 are all you really need.
Still, I am rather curious.
I hear it's good.
THE CZECH TOOL
The topic of discussion for the evening did not excite me, that being the humble pipe tamper, of which there are innumerable varieties that all serve the same purpose: tamping down the crown of fire at the top of the bowl as the smoke progresses, so that it will burn evenly and continue doing so all the way down.
One person made the mistake of criticising the Czech Tool.
Gentlemen, the Czech Tool is absolutely the greatest thing to ever come out of Eastern Europe, the one product or invention that puts the Slavic bog on the map. It is the ONLY reason the Czech Republic was admitted to the United Nations and the European Union. With their military armed primarily with this simple and functional object, they are capable of resisting vast invasions by Russians, Huns, and Turks. And it is an elegant object! Even James Bond uses it. The reason why you don't remember him doing so is because it is subtle and understated. It is a stealth accoutrement par excellence.
That air of intellectual superiority that geniuses such as Bertrand Russel, Georges Simenon, Whatsisbucket Tolkien, and Franz Kafka exude?
It is the Czech Tool.
Simply possessing a Czech Tool marks one as a man of the world, capable of taking on any contingency, and a darn sexy beast.
I have three dozen of them.
More or less.
[New Zealand was also briefly discussed. The consensus is that we should visit before the hobbit is hunted to extinction, and eat one before that is banned.]
Wine was drunk. And tea, lots of tea. Salami, cheese, French bread, and one tomato were consumed. Several nice pipe tobaccos were smoked.
Three of us repaired to a cigar bar afterwards, where we calmly and thoughtfully smoked some more. We were quite unlike the cigar-huffing cretins surrounding us, whose giddy excitement and girlish middle-aged men squeals made it hard to hear oneself think at times.
Purely a matter of gravitas.
Germain & Son Perique Mixture. MacBarens Dark Twist from 2008. Dunhill Ready Rubbed. McClelland Balkan Blue.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, January 14, 2016
DISGUSTIBUS NON DISPUTANDEM
On second thought, that chicken sandwich was pretty repulsive.
Which is what it was on first thought too.
Shan't even mention the chorizo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which is what it was on first thought too.
Shan't even mention the chorizo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
EXAMINING THE REPUBLICAN BRAIN
Dear Republicans, I would like you to read an article on Media Matters:
The Final Year Of Obama Derangement Syndrome Is Gonna Be A Doozy. It is about you.
Quote:
"It didn't take long for conservative commentators to start hurling childish insults at their television sets last night during President Obama's State of the Union address."
Quote:
"We're not talking about anonymous online commenters, or a group chat of College Republicans. We're talking about people who are supposed to be leading lights within the conservative movement. But it turns out they're immune to intellectual pursuit."
Quote:
"What's amazing to watch is that their parallel-universe view of Obama has only intensified over the years. You'd think the white-hot anger might subside over time, especially when it became clear Obama governed as a traditional, center-left Democrat, not as some sort of Marxist radical."
That is to say, I would like you to read it. But you have shown by your spew these past several years that that is something of which you are incapable.
What so many of you have said for over a decade about so many matters proves that you deserve to be clubbed to death like harp seals. All of you Republicans, like your candidates in this election, are repulsive.
History will judge you harshly.
You have no shame.
Stuff your chutzpah.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The Final Year Of Obama Derangement Syndrome Is Gonna Be A Doozy. It is about you.
Quote:
"It didn't take long for conservative commentators to start hurling childish insults at their television sets last night during President Obama's State of the Union address."
Quote:
"We're not talking about anonymous online commenters, or a group chat of College Republicans. We're talking about people who are supposed to be leading lights within the conservative movement. But it turns out they're immune to intellectual pursuit."
Quote:
"What's amazing to watch is that their parallel-universe view of Obama has only intensified over the years. You'd think the white-hot anger might subside over time, especially when it became clear Obama governed as a traditional, center-left Democrat, not as some sort of Marxist radical."
That is to say, I would like you to read it. But you have shown by your spew these past several years that that is something of which you are incapable.
What so many of you have said for over a decade about so many matters proves that you deserve to be clubbed to death like harp seals. All of you Republicans, like your candidates in this election, are repulsive.
History will judge you harshly.
You have no shame.
Stuff your chutzpah.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
MAMA HUHU, AND ALWAYS WACKILY UPBEAT
Sometimes you discover that other people are vastly different. So much so that they might as well be from another continent!
Oh wait. They are.
CHINESE COMEDY ON YOUTUBE
The phrase 'mama huhu' (馬馬虎虎 "horse-horse tiger-tiger", in Cantonese 'maa maa fu fu') has a multiplicity of meanings, ranging from "it's okay" through "well, not that bad" and "so-so", to "all in all rather damned mediocre". It is a very flexible expression.
As well as the name of a funny video series.
Which is rather often excellent.
IN THE BEGINNING
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=66bf46lSYWY.]
PERHAPS IN BETWEEN
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0dYX_Xq7ECY.]
AT THE END
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rZcPXZ_YV50.]
Nice hip young people presenting a freshly innocent look at modern life. Sure, a bit stereotypic, but entertaining and intelligent too.
Do please note that buying condoms for the first time is an act of wishful thinking in all cultures. It sometimes happens up to a decade before they ever might be employed, at which time one may not remember where they are, or if one actually packed them at the time one moved to a different abode. Perhaps one left them in one's sock drawer, along with all the magazines that weren't Time or Newsweek.
Hypothetical letter home: "Dear Mom, Please tip the contents of the top drawer of the dresser in my room into a large box, and mail it to me as soon as possible. Do NOT look inside. It's nothing but socks. Trust me. I felt a sudden urge to wear the same socks I wore as a young grammar school student, because I miss you and the old man so much.
Sincerely, Little Duck Face.
PS.: Don't look!"
Mama Huhu has many other videos on youtube.
Some of them are painfully funny.
Go take a look.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Oh wait. They are.
CHINESE COMEDY ON YOUTUBE
The phrase 'mama huhu' (馬馬虎虎 "horse-horse tiger-tiger", in Cantonese 'maa maa fu fu') has a multiplicity of meanings, ranging from "it's okay" through "well, not that bad" and "so-so", to "all in all rather damned mediocre". It is a very flexible expression.
As well as the name of a funny video series.
Which is rather often excellent.
IN THE BEGINNING
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=66bf46lSYWY.]
PERHAPS IN BETWEEN
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0dYX_Xq7ECY.]
AT THE END
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rZcPXZ_YV50.]
Nice hip young people presenting a freshly innocent look at modern life. Sure, a bit stereotypic, but entertaining and intelligent too.
Do please note that buying condoms for the first time is an act of wishful thinking in all cultures. It sometimes happens up to a decade before they ever might be employed, at which time one may not remember where they are, or if one actually packed them at the time one moved to a different abode. Perhaps one left them in one's sock drawer, along with all the magazines that weren't Time or Newsweek.
Hypothetical letter home: "Dear Mom, Please tip the contents of the top drawer of the dresser in my room into a large box, and mail it to me as soon as possible. Do NOT look inside. It's nothing but socks. Trust me. I felt a sudden urge to wear the same socks I wore as a young grammar school student, because I miss you and the old man so much.
Sincerely, Little Duck Face.
PS.: Don't look!"
Mama Huhu has many other videos on youtube.
Some of them are painfully funny.
Go take a look.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
RANDOM RHETORIC, AND BANANAS
This blogger made the mistake of coming home. Barely minutes after I had arrived, the one-legged monkey and the two little sheep were tormenting me. With, occasionally, rude comments from the Froad as well as the small bovine. All of which, sad to say, my apartment mate encouraged.
I feel very much put upon.
I did NOT fart!
That was just the floop-sound of a box with briars being opened up. It being time to thin out the rotation. One does not need over thirtysix pipes in play, two dozen are more than sufficient.
I own over 170.
Yet despite my clear and accurate explanation, none of the small fuzzy creatures believes me. Instead, they speculate loudly that "pipe box" is how I refer to my private parts.
One of them is now demanding a banana sandwich.
I haven't made a sandwich in weeks.
Ate a late lunch in Chinatown, and bought some socks.
Smoked two pipefulls. Virginia with a dab of Perique.
First off, one of my favourite bakeries is going through changes -- it was sold last month -- and the pastries are not the same. There's new stuff, and some of it is quite untraditional. The milk-tea is very different too.
Secondly, Scotland isn't Canada, and The Lumberjack Song didn't take place there. Yes, both places are filled with large hairy white guys, and the climate is beastly, but that does NOT mean they're one and the same.
[Woodfellers: Canada. Sheep and skirty men: Scotland. Haggis: Both.]
That second one was an aside to a fuzzy creature.
Third, some weaselly thug-type with a neck tattoo and an aura of being recently released from the penitentiary was lurking around Grant and Clay, going back and forth between the intersection and the edge of the park.
No, he didn't seem like a crazy person.
More like a criminal psychopath wannabee.
Violent crime waiting to happen.
Why does so much human garbage infest Chinatown? Is this because the Cantonese will just ignore them? Or is city government encouraging it, as a way of driving people out so that programmers can move on in? Have orders been given to city departments including the police to neglect Chinatown as revenge for the locals voting so decisively against Ed Lee's handpicked droodge? Until I see the authorities taking steps against the loonies and nasty white trash -- as well as recent releases from the big house -- I'll just assume that the San Francisco Democratic powerbrokers and elected officials are deliberately turning a blind eye.
It won't be the first time City Hall screws the neighborhood.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I feel very much put upon.
I did NOT fart!
That was just the floop-sound of a box with briars being opened up. It being time to thin out the rotation. One does not need over thirtysix pipes in play, two dozen are more than sufficient.
I own over 170.
Yet despite my clear and accurate explanation, none of the small fuzzy creatures believes me. Instead, they speculate loudly that "pipe box" is how I refer to my private parts.
One of them is now demanding a banana sandwich.
I haven't made a sandwich in weeks.
Ate a late lunch in Chinatown, and bought some socks.
Smoked two pipefulls. Virginia with a dab of Perique.
First off, one of my favourite bakeries is going through changes -- it was sold last month -- and the pastries are not the same. There's new stuff, and some of it is quite untraditional. The milk-tea is very different too.
Secondly, Scotland isn't Canada, and The Lumberjack Song didn't take place there. Yes, both places are filled with large hairy white guys, and the climate is beastly, but that does NOT mean they're one and the same.
[Woodfellers: Canada. Sheep and skirty men: Scotland. Haggis: Both.]
That second one was an aside to a fuzzy creature.
Third, some weaselly thug-type with a neck tattoo and an aura of being recently released from the penitentiary was lurking around Grant and Clay, going back and forth between the intersection and the edge of the park.
No, he didn't seem like a crazy person.
More like a criminal psychopath wannabee.
Violent crime waiting to happen.
Why does so much human garbage infest Chinatown? Is this because the Cantonese will just ignore them? Or is city government encouraging it, as a way of driving people out so that programmers can move on in? Have orders been given to city departments including the police to neglect Chinatown as revenge for the locals voting so decisively against Ed Lee's handpicked droodge? Until I see the authorities taking steps against the loonies and nasty white trash -- as well as recent releases from the big house -- I'll just assume that the San Francisco Democratic powerbrokers and elected officials are deliberately turning a blind eye.
It won't be the first time City Hall screws the neighborhood.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
AUSTRALIAN VEGANS SQUEALING LIKE PIGS
A commercial by a company seriously committed to the sale, purchase, and delighted consumption of animal protein, has managed to upset a shockingly high number of people down under.
Australian vegans are offended by an 'action movie-style advertisement campaign to promote Australian lamb', produced recently by Meat & Livestock Australia.
Angry complaints have been registered.
"In one scene, a SWAT team smashes into the home of a man in New York saying "C'mon mate, in a few hours you'll be eating lamb on the beach", to which the the bearded man responds: "But I'm a vegan now...".
The ad later cuts to a shot of a flamethrower-wielding SWAT officer burning a bowl of tofu on the vegan's table."
[SOURCE: Aussie Vegans upset -- BBC.]
Frankly, I think that's pretty goldarn funny.
Perhaps the Vegans should just suck it up.
Tofu drenched in Vegemite sounds like it should be incinerated, and the world is too full of self-obsessed food-neurotics to take any of them, or what they eat, seriously.
FURIOUS VEGANS!
To quote the words of a Cantonese American mother confronted by her daughter's vegetarian white boyfriend, "just eat around the meat". What she probably thought, but regrettably didn't voice, was "silly bugger, the world does not revolve around your requirements, stop being such a drippy pain-in-the-neck, you pretentious dingo, dammit".
She should've said it too.
People who obsess more about animals than the injustices visited upon their fellow humans need to re-align their heads and check their privilege.
At the very least they need to take their heads out of their rectums, and pay far less attention to their colonic karma.
Lamb, by the way, is one of my favourite meats. Along with pork, duck, and a well-marbled cut of beef. Or juicy sausages. I like lamb.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Australian vegans are offended by an 'action movie-style advertisement campaign to promote Australian lamb', produced recently by Meat & Livestock Australia.
Angry complaints have been registered.
"In one scene, a SWAT team smashes into the home of a man in New York saying "C'mon mate, in a few hours you'll be eating lamb on the beach", to which the the bearded man responds: "But I'm a vegan now...".
The ad later cuts to a shot of a flamethrower-wielding SWAT officer burning a bowl of tofu on the vegan's table."
[SOURCE: Aussie Vegans upset -- BBC.]
Frankly, I think that's pretty goldarn funny.
Perhaps the Vegans should just suck it up.
Tofu drenched in Vegemite sounds like it should be incinerated, and the world is too full of self-obsessed food-neurotics to take any of them, or what they eat, seriously.
FURIOUS VEGANS!
To quote the words of a Cantonese American mother confronted by her daughter's vegetarian white boyfriend, "just eat around the meat". What she probably thought, but regrettably didn't voice, was "silly bugger, the world does not revolve around your requirements, stop being such a drippy pain-in-the-neck, you pretentious dingo, dammit".
She should've said it too.
People who obsess more about animals than the injustices visited upon their fellow humans need to re-align their heads and check their privilege.
At the very least they need to take their heads out of their rectums, and pay far less attention to their colonic karma.
Lamb, by the way, is one of my favourite meats. Along with pork, duck, and a well-marbled cut of beef. Or juicy sausages. I like lamb.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 11, 2016
PEOPLE WHO READ
A friend on the East Coast has built himself a smoking den in the attic. Which, last year, caved in during the snowpocalypse, and drove him into the brutal anti-smoking world down below, where his good wife lives.
I shan't say any more about his domestic situation than that.
Many smokers live with tobacco-hating women, this blogger included. Fortunately my apartment mate has a weak sense of smell, and is fairly tolerant of my peculiarities. Not so most of the cigar-huffing cretins of Marin County, poor dears, who almost to a man tell sad tales of being banished to the back porch, or sitting at the far end of the garden, or indulging in solitary anguish entirely at the end of the block under the streetlight with the crack dealers, juvenile delinquents, and raccoons.
Who, presumably, also have intolerant co-occupants.
My apartment mate has a boyfriend who can't stand the smell of smoke, but because he's in a wheelchair he cannot ever visit her. This, and our different schedules, give me many fine hours that I can fume away with the windows open, or swan about the apartment dressed or undressed like a slob. With the windows open.
There is no one present to raise any objections.
I am rather lucky, all things considered.
If I ever start dating again, I'll probably get screwed.
Not that I'm likely to start dating anytime soon. Given that most women hate smokers, as well as men who do not act according to expectation.
In this world there are two types of people with whom conversation is well-nigh impossible: sportsfans and handbag-o-philes. There have been times at the cigar bar that I wondered what the heck I was doing there, as everyone else was screaming team-related obscenities at the television set or clutching expensive purses.
I felt rather the odd man out.
No, I'm not looking for someone with whom to discuss art or politics.
Just conversational partners who are reasonably abreast of current events, willing to formulate opinions with a certain nuance, and able to completely ignore my smoking. Or enjoy a puff or two themselves.
What that basically means is that it's a complete shot in the dark.
Most of my associates are men who read.
Far fewer are women.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I shan't say any more about his domestic situation than that.
Many smokers live with tobacco-hating women, this blogger included. Fortunately my apartment mate has a weak sense of smell, and is fairly tolerant of my peculiarities. Not so most of the cigar-huffing cretins of Marin County, poor dears, who almost to a man tell sad tales of being banished to the back porch, or sitting at the far end of the garden, or indulging in solitary anguish entirely at the end of the block under the streetlight with the crack dealers, juvenile delinquents, and raccoons.
Who, presumably, also have intolerant co-occupants.
My apartment mate has a boyfriend who can't stand the smell of smoke, but because he's in a wheelchair he cannot ever visit her. This, and our different schedules, give me many fine hours that I can fume away with the windows open, or swan about the apartment dressed or undressed like a slob. With the windows open.
There is no one present to raise any objections.
I am rather lucky, all things considered.
If I ever start dating again, I'll probably get screwed.
Not that I'm likely to start dating anytime soon. Given that most women hate smokers, as well as men who do not act according to expectation.
In this world there are two types of people with whom conversation is well-nigh impossible: sportsfans and handbag-o-philes. There have been times at the cigar bar that I wondered what the heck I was doing there, as everyone else was screaming team-related obscenities at the television set or clutching expensive purses.
I felt rather the odd man out.
No, I'm not looking for someone with whom to discuss art or politics.
Just conversational partners who are reasonably abreast of current events, willing to formulate opinions with a certain nuance, and able to completely ignore my smoking. Or enjoy a puff or two themselves.
What that basically means is that it's a complete shot in the dark.
Most of my associates are men who read.
Far fewer are women.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHAT CAN ONE SAY?
Given that I come into contact with the public regularly, despite my own best instincts, there are times when surprising things occur. Things that convince me that a somewhat sizable number of my fellow human beings have strange mental kinks that need ironing out, or are in fact quite staggeringly batsh*t crazy.
I hesitate to call all of them "my fellow human beings".
Some of them are from Planet Freakazoid.
Only briefly passing through.
Aliens.
They're probably waiting for the mother ship.
That would explain an awful lot.
The other day someone informed me in all seriousness "with your lovely accent and diction, you really should be doing porno films".
Well all-righty then. I wasn't expecting that.
"You should be in porno!"
Not infrequently people will advise me that I should do voice-overs, or books on tape, or even go into radio or commercials.
Porno films.
Wow.
And 'what on earth?!?'
I thanked her nicely for the compliment.
I'm fairly certain it was meant as such.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I hesitate to call all of them "my fellow human beings".
Some of them are from Planet Freakazoid.
Only briefly passing through.
Aliens.
They're probably waiting for the mother ship.
That would explain an awful lot.
The other day someone informed me in all seriousness "with your lovely accent and diction, you really should be doing porno films".
Well all-righty then. I wasn't expecting that.
"You should be in porno!"
Not infrequently people will advise me that I should do voice-overs, or books on tape, or even go into radio or commercials.
Porno films.
Wow.
And 'what on earth?!?'
I thanked her nicely for the compliment.
I'm fairly certain it was meant as such.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 10, 2016
THE FORCE AWOKE!
This blogger eventually will go see 'The Force Awakens', like my co-worker. who has a big romantic date planned with his wife this evening -- no, I don't know if he's bringing the kids too -- and who by this time tomorrow will have digested the biggest epickest blockbusterest space story ever in all details. And will, no doubt, be spewing spoilers for the rest of the month.
This blogger likes spoilers. Envious I am.
He'll probably forget all about them by next weekend, which is when we'll first be working together again. Or I'll be too distracted to ask.
I looked up 'The Force Awakes' on Wikipedia, and tried reading the plot. Lord helps us, it makes no sense whatsoever.
So I took the liberty of re-writing the entire movie.
Just a little. For greater clarity.
Appreciate it below.
Scene one:
The Force awoke. And had a good strong cup of coffee. Then fell asleep. And woke up again. And had another cup of coffee. Then gradually nodded off, woke up with a start, and rushed to the loo to heave. Memories of the sardine pizza it ate last night came flooding back, and up.
Scene two:
A soup pot floating in space with bunch of characterless drips on board breaks down. A senile old fart and his yeti sidekick capture it, repair the engine while fighting off a passel of Southern Baptists, then they kinda loose interest, or their attentions wander.
Scene three:
This is the part on Sprockets when we dance. Everybody fight now. Beware killer rabbits.
Scene four:
Stuff happens. Get over it. Celebrate, and give Luke some old garbage to remind him of someone else. Whatever.
The big bucket of popcorn tastes nasty.
It is time to leave.
The end.
Moral issues are raised, sh*t gets blown up, there are vistas, colours, and panoramas, and the special effects are truly amazing. Several people you have never heard of before are introduced -- Scooter, Dingo, and Q-Ball -- who will surprisingly survive all the pyrotechnics, but probably die between now and whenever the next episode of this turgid saga hits the theatres.
Which is okay, because they really weren't that interesting.
You only wanted to see the robots anyway.
And the big machinery.
Yep, definitely planning to see it.
Won't buy any popcorn.
I would also like to take somebody cute and charming to the movie, but unlike my coworker, I am not married. So that is not going to happen.
"If the generals back in Nha Trang could see what I saw, would they still want me to kill him? More than ever, probably. And what would his people back home want if they ever learned just how far from them he'd really gone? He broke from them, and then he broke from himself.
I'd never seen a man so broken up and ripped apart. "
I suspect that not a single line in the movie is worth remembering, unlike Monty Python And The Holy Grail, or Apocalypse Now, which are 100% quotable. As well as examples to live by.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This blogger likes spoilers. Envious I am.
He'll probably forget all about them by next weekend, which is when we'll first be working together again. Or I'll be too distracted to ask.
I looked up 'The Force Awakes' on Wikipedia, and tried reading the plot. Lord helps us, it makes no sense whatsoever.
So I took the liberty of re-writing the entire movie.
Just a little. For greater clarity.
Appreciate it below.
Scene one:
The Force awoke. And had a good strong cup of coffee. Then fell asleep. And woke up again. And had another cup of coffee. Then gradually nodded off, woke up with a start, and rushed to the loo to heave. Memories of the sardine pizza it ate last night came flooding back, and up.
Scene two:
A soup pot floating in space with bunch of characterless drips on board breaks down. A senile old fart and his yeti sidekick capture it, repair the engine while fighting off a passel of Southern Baptists, then they kinda loose interest, or their attentions wander.
Scene three:
This is the part on Sprockets when we dance. Everybody fight now. Beware killer rabbits.
Scene four:
Stuff happens. Get over it. Celebrate, and give Luke some old garbage to remind him of someone else. Whatever.
The big bucket of popcorn tastes nasty.
It is time to leave.
The end.
Moral issues are raised, sh*t gets blown up, there are vistas, colours, and panoramas, and the special effects are truly amazing. Several people you have never heard of before are introduced -- Scooter, Dingo, and Q-Ball -- who will surprisingly survive all the pyrotechnics, but probably die between now and whenever the next episode of this turgid saga hits the theatres.
Which is okay, because they really weren't that interesting.
You only wanted to see the robots anyway.
And the big machinery.
Yep, definitely planning to see it.
Won't buy any popcorn.
I would also like to take somebody cute and charming to the movie, but unlike my coworker, I am not married. So that is not going to happen.
"If the generals back in Nha Trang could see what I saw, would they still want me to kill him? More than ever, probably. And what would his people back home want if they ever learned just how far from them he'd really gone? He broke from them, and then he broke from himself.
I'd never seen a man so broken up and ripped apart. "
I suspect that not a single line in the movie is worth remembering, unlike Monty Python And The Holy Grail, or Apocalypse Now, which are 100% quotable. As well as examples to live by.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
ALL-AMERICAN CUPCAKES
My apartment mate reminded me that Americans eat strange stuff. Something which I thought I knew already, but as it turns out, it's far worse than I suspected.
Kale cupcakes. Broccoli cupcakes.
Green tea icing cupcakes.
Kombucha cupcakes.
Plus "organic" gluten-free vegan all of the above.
Thank heavens none of that has been combined with Sriracha hotsauce, but it's just a matter of time before some bourgeois dingleberry does so.
I despair for modern society.
You folks are weird.
Fortunately there is chocolate pudding.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Kale cupcakes. Broccoli cupcakes.
Green tea icing cupcakes.
Kombucha cupcakes.
Plus "organic" gluten-free vegan all of the above.
Thank heavens none of that has been combined with Sriracha hotsauce, but it's just a matter of time before some bourgeois dingleberry does so.
I despair for modern society.
You folks are weird.
Fortunately there is chocolate pudding.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
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,...
