Best line heard today: "I wouldn't have told her that it was from ill-gotten gains, I would've just given it to her!" This was behind me on the bus.
It is both charming and disturbing.
An office worker showing the best impulses and the worst. A giftie for his girl, and white collar crime. In one opportunistic modern package.
"I wouldn't have told her that it was from ill-gotten gains, I would've just given it to her!"
Nothing says 'Christmas' like a junior banker doing something illegal.
Or perhaps he works in stocks or real-estate.
It's starting early this year.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
GENDER ROLE BIASES
Over the years I have finally realized that I have a soft spot for Barbie Dolls. No, it isn't the femininity or exaggerated non-sexual sexuality of the toys, but the fact that there is a tackiness that does not stop, their heads come off, and they evoke both the impermanence of most consumer goods as well the sheer common-place vulgarity of existence.
That probably over-intellectualizes it, but a naked headless Barbie carelessly left out by the rubbish tip really speaks to me.
Yes, it reminds me off my childhood. At which time I did not associate such things with what girls actually looked like or could possibly look like, but with the end of day, autumn, and warmth. "It's getting cold and dark, we should go inside, and have a warm beverage around the kitchen table."
And just like that, little pink headless naked Barbie gets forgotten.
She's soulless, and has absolutely no personality.
There is no empathy possible.
An "object".
That isn't a person, boys and girls, nor even a representation of one the genders, but an inanimate object of weird shape. A temporary totem, like a decorated stick, or a tin can with two eyes and a smile painted on.
I find it incredible hard to accept, much less sympathize, with the fact that some little girls identify with Barbie, or see that doll as in any way an embodiment of them or their eventual worth in the world.
That's what trolls and stuffed animals are for.
And other reductionistic simulacra.
Plus Hello Kitty.
I defy anyone to find a single thing that is masculine or feminine there.
There is no simpering, there are no frills. And conversely no spikes, leather, or a G. I. Joe machine gun. No pigskin, no football helmet, no biker tats.
Hello Kitty just "is". No role play.
With a matter-of-fact defiance she informs us that she ate all the cookies, there are none left, no not sorry (probably because there will be more eventually), and she is enjoying a fine post-snack smoke. Whatever the tobacco is, is somewhat immaterial -- women and men have the same tastebuds, so it is probably NOT a ghastly vanilla custard raspberry truffle cavendish; those are for pimple-faced fat boys who live in their mommy's basement and play violent video games all night -- but it may very well be something startling like a full Latakia blend (Dunhill 'Nightcap', Greg Pease 'Odyssey', Esoterica 'And So To Bed'). Or perhaps Peter Heinrich's 'Dark Strong Flake'. Even HH MacBaren 'Old Dark Fired'.
I cannot imagine Barbie smoking anything decent in a pipe. Primarily because she's got no head or clothes on, but also because she seems to have surrounded herself with all the trappings of suburbia, including a plastic boy toy who looks like her and disapproves of individuality.
Together, they watch football on teevee while machine-gunning the neighbors' pet cat.
Positively the worst thing that you can say about either of them is that they don't always go to church on Sunday, have perfect hair, drink Starbucks Hazelnut Caramel Frappe, and have matching cellphones.
Which, honestly, I find pretty repulsive.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
That probably over-intellectualizes it, but a naked headless Barbie carelessly left out by the rubbish tip really speaks to me.
Yes, it reminds me off my childhood. At which time I did not associate such things with what girls actually looked like or could possibly look like, but with the end of day, autumn, and warmth. "It's getting cold and dark, we should go inside, and have a warm beverage around the kitchen table."
And just like that, little pink headless naked Barbie gets forgotten.
She's soulless, and has absolutely no personality.
There is no empathy possible.
An "object".
That isn't a person, boys and girls, nor even a representation of one the genders, but an inanimate object of weird shape. A temporary totem, like a decorated stick, or a tin can with two eyes and a smile painted on.
I find it incredible hard to accept, much less sympathize, with the fact that some little girls identify with Barbie, or see that doll as in any way an embodiment of them or their eventual worth in the world.
That's what trolls and stuffed animals are for.
And other reductionistic simulacra.
Plus Hello Kitty.
I defy anyone to find a single thing that is masculine or feminine there.
There is no simpering, there are no frills. And conversely no spikes, leather, or a G. I. Joe machine gun. No pigskin, no football helmet, no biker tats.
Hello Kitty just "is". No role play.
With a matter-of-fact defiance she informs us that she ate all the cookies, there are none left, no not sorry (probably because there will be more eventually), and she is enjoying a fine post-snack smoke. Whatever the tobacco is, is somewhat immaterial -- women and men have the same tastebuds, so it is probably NOT a ghastly vanilla custard raspberry truffle cavendish; those are for pimple-faced fat boys who live in their mommy's basement and play violent video games all night -- but it may very well be something startling like a full Latakia blend (Dunhill 'Nightcap', Greg Pease 'Odyssey', Esoterica 'And So To Bed'). Or perhaps Peter Heinrich's 'Dark Strong Flake'. Even HH MacBaren 'Old Dark Fired'.
I cannot imagine Barbie smoking anything decent in a pipe. Primarily because she's got no head or clothes on, but also because she seems to have surrounded herself with all the trappings of suburbia, including a plastic boy toy who looks like her and disapproves of individuality.
Together, they watch football on teevee while machine-gunning the neighbors' pet cat.
Positively the worst thing that you can say about either of them is that they don't always go to church on Sunday, have perfect hair, drink Starbucks Hazelnut Caramel Frappe, and have matching cellphones.
Which, honestly, I find pretty repulsive.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, October 17, 2016
LAMENTING A LACK OF SWEETNESS
Alas, there are no more bon bons! I ate them all. I wish I had not been so greedy, because even ONE SINGLE bon bon would have been very nice after my burrito de carnitas, sin frijoles, con extra queso y los sheer bucket-loads de salsa picante.
I think the salsa was made from chiles de arbol secos, toasted a little to facilitate grinding.
Sometimes a man lives for his mouth.
As I am lighting up the fifth and final pipe of the day (it is after ten in the evening here in San Francisco), A.F. in Hong Kong is looking forward to another smoke later in the afternoon. Earlier he stood on the north side of Queens Road Central, between Ice House and Bank streets, sheltering from the rain, while smoking a Dunhill mixture that cannot be purchased anywhere here in the Bay Area. It has Latakia in it, and probably smelled very evocative and absolutely delightful in the warm humid afternoon air.
What I am smoking is Cornell & Diehl's Yorktown, which is a straight Virginia ribbon-cut mixture. Simple but excellent. In a black sandblast bent bulldog bought at Grant's on Market Street years ago.
Instead of a bon bon, I am having another cup of coffee. So there may be another pipe after midnight. My apartment mate does not notice Virginias after she has fallen asleep. She claims to hate smoking, but does not have a particularly sensitive nose. Which, believe me, is a blessing indeed.
Late at night, when she is in her room, and I am still up in front of my computer, I take risks. Like smoking a bowlful of something mostly flue-cured in the same living quarters as a fervent nonsmoker.
In Hong Kong one does not need to take risks.
I had a burrito with extra cheese.
A.F. has a typhoon.
The bon bons, which are now all gone, were from Littlejohns, which has locations in San Francisco and Los Angeles. It is a company I had never heard of before. They were luscious. When it comes to sweet things I have no self control. I kept telling myself "no more" while grabbing another. It is surprising how fast a box of sweeties disappears.
And disappointing too.
I also finished the icecream.
It was caramel.
There is still some cake left (one whole generous portion), but I resist.
My apartment mate should have it for breakfast.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I think the salsa was made from chiles de arbol secos, toasted a little to facilitate grinding.
Sometimes a man lives for his mouth.
As I am lighting up the fifth and final pipe of the day (it is after ten in the evening here in San Francisco), A.F. in Hong Kong is looking forward to another smoke later in the afternoon. Earlier he stood on the north side of Queens Road Central, between Ice House and Bank streets, sheltering from the rain, while smoking a Dunhill mixture that cannot be purchased anywhere here in the Bay Area. It has Latakia in it, and probably smelled very evocative and absolutely delightful in the warm humid afternoon air.
What I am smoking is Cornell & Diehl's Yorktown, which is a straight Virginia ribbon-cut mixture. Simple but excellent. In a black sandblast bent bulldog bought at Grant's on Market Street years ago.
Instead of a bon bon, I am having another cup of coffee. So there may be another pipe after midnight. My apartment mate does not notice Virginias after she has fallen asleep. She claims to hate smoking, but does not have a particularly sensitive nose. Which, believe me, is a blessing indeed.
Late at night, when she is in her room, and I am still up in front of my computer, I take risks. Like smoking a bowlful of something mostly flue-cured in the same living quarters as a fervent nonsmoker.
In Hong Kong one does not need to take risks.
I had a burrito with extra cheese.
A.F. has a typhoon.
The bon bons, which are now all gone, were from Littlejohns, which has locations in San Francisco and Los Angeles. It is a company I had never heard of before. They were luscious. When it comes to sweet things I have no self control. I kept telling myself "no more" while grabbing another. It is surprising how fast a box of sweeties disappears.
And disappointing too.
I also finished the icecream.
It was caramel.
There is still some cake left (one whole generous portion), but I resist.
My apartment mate should have it for breakfast.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
IMPROVE THE COUNTRY ONE SAVAGE BEATING AT A TIME
Great line underneath an internet post elsewhere: "that is caused by your internalized misogyny". This anent someone reading the comments and feeling homicidal in consequence. Which led me on a wild journey.
Pursuant which, this cartoon:
[Location where found: https://www.facebook.com/atasteoftheawful/; A Taste Of The Awful.]
She's right.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Pursuant which, this cartoon:
[Location where found: https://www.facebook.com/atasteoftheawful/; A Taste Of The Awful.]
She's right.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, October 16, 2016
POSSIBLY A TEENAGE PHASE
A post I wrote a while back disturbed some readers. "What", I asked, "would I be like if I had been born a woman?" It seems a worthwhile question. My mother was a woman, and in many ways I am a mama's boy. She was short, stubborn, brilliant, and quite incapable of backing down.
A very strong minded and bold woman.
I am not short, being about ten inches taller than her.
Unfortunately I am not as brilliant as her either.
It's a condition I should wish to aspire to.
Had I been born a woman, both of my parents would've made certain that I nevertheless had backbone. It is quite likely that I would have gotten into many more fights in grammar school, because what with being a smaller person there would have been even more incentive not to let the other kids run roughshod over me, and even more excuse to kick them in the balls something fierce.
It is also likely, incredibly likely, that I would have had no clue whatsoever about the feminine arts. Cooking? My mother had half a dozen recipes plus grilled cheese sandwich. Laundry? Make sure the dirty stuff is ready for Monday morning pickup. Sewing, darning, mending? If it's got a button missing, throw it out.
Finger nail polish? That's for keeping buckles, uniform buttons, and insignia shiny. Everyone knows that!
High heels? We shall not speak of those. A pair got taken off and flung across the foyer once after a required company event.
She never wore pumps again.
As I said, a strong minded woman. She's lucky I wasn't a daughter, as without a doubt I would have rebelled against her several years sooner.
Skirts and lipstick, oh boy! Pantyhose, pearls, and tampons!
And for crapsakes, stop buying me clothes from the Sears Roebuck Catalogue! I can buy my own, and no, my breasts and hips are NOT one size larger every year! Jesus, mom!
I probably would have ended up dating handsome young men from the Atheneum or the Gymnasium, but I'm sure that's something she would have understood.
As for smoking a pipe, that would have been a foregone conclusion.
I always was a stubborn cuss, and would have been far more so as a girl. Likely to have asked the tobacconist when I bought my first briar "don't you have anything that doesn't stink like cheap candy?!?"
Might well have scared the poor man no end.
I would not have tried aromatics.
No matter how femmy.
Proper women read books, smoke good tobacco if at all, and have a preference for strong coffee or tea. And, just like proper men, fervently dislike sports, jocks, oafs, and the suburban life-style.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A very strong minded and bold woman.
I am not short, being about ten inches taller than her.
Unfortunately I am not as brilliant as her either.
It's a condition I should wish to aspire to.
Had I been born a woman, both of my parents would've made certain that I nevertheless had backbone. It is quite likely that I would have gotten into many more fights in grammar school, because what with being a smaller person there would have been even more incentive not to let the other kids run roughshod over me, and even more excuse to kick them in the balls something fierce.
It is also likely, incredibly likely, that I would have had no clue whatsoever about the feminine arts. Cooking? My mother had half a dozen recipes plus grilled cheese sandwich. Laundry? Make sure the dirty stuff is ready for Monday morning pickup. Sewing, darning, mending? If it's got a button missing, throw it out.
Finger nail polish? That's for keeping buckles, uniform buttons, and insignia shiny. Everyone knows that!
High heels? We shall not speak of those. A pair got taken off and flung across the foyer once after a required company event.
She never wore pumps again.
As I said, a strong minded woman. She's lucky I wasn't a daughter, as without a doubt I would have rebelled against her several years sooner.
Skirts and lipstick, oh boy! Pantyhose, pearls, and tampons!
And for crapsakes, stop buying me clothes from the Sears Roebuck Catalogue! I can buy my own, and no, my breasts and hips are NOT one size larger every year! Jesus, mom!
I probably would have ended up dating handsome young men from the Atheneum or the Gymnasium, but I'm sure that's something she would have understood.
As for smoking a pipe, that would have been a foregone conclusion.
I always was a stubborn cuss, and would have been far more so as a girl. Likely to have asked the tobacconist when I bought my first briar "don't you have anything that doesn't stink like cheap candy?!?"
Might well have scared the poor man no end.
I would not have tried aromatics.
No matter how femmy.
Proper women read books, smoke good tobacco if at all, and have a preference for strong coffee or tea. And, just like proper men, fervently dislike sports, jocks, oafs, and the suburban life-style.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THREE PIPE SMOKERS WALK INTO A BAR ...
Yesterday was intoxicating. Not because of booze (a very small shot of Jameson's, with some tap water), nor because of the double helping of cake and ice-cream for dinner -- it had been my birthday on Thursday, which my apartment mate celebrated with me on Friday with prezzies, cake, ice cream, and a box of bonbons, what with Thursday being a work day from which I returned home late -- nor, remarkably because a drunken or crazy person in a doorway yelled words of empowerment at me ("hey faggot, don't you dare come near me!"), but because of tobacco.
Please note that the empowering phrase cited above strongly suggests TWO things: 1) he's immensely threatened by my blazing masculinity, and 2) this blogger has the magic power to scare random people. He could've also been offended by my pink Hello Kitty backpack, in which I carry smoking equipment and a selection of tobaccos on work days.
Hello Kitty emasculates fragile flowers.
On Thursday, Joe from Laudisi brought by some tobaccos for the pipe club. One of the tins being Gregory Pease's Regents Flake. After having one bowl, I decided to take a little home for further sampling.
I stuffed fully one third of the tin into a plastic bag.
Friday I only smoked one pipe, fairly late in the day, when the tobacco hangover from nine pipes enjoyed on Thursday had finally worn off.
None of the Greg Pease stuff.
Saturday morning it started raining.
It was a slow day.
Boring.
I had five bowls of Regents Flake.
REGENTS FLAKE
G. L. PEASE, OLD LONDON SERIES
Manufactured by Cornell & Diehl
Blurb: "A generous measure of fine Izmir leaf is layered on a sturdy foundation of mature red and sweet bright Virginia tobaccos, then pressed and allowed to mature and ferment in cakes before being sliced and tinned. This is one for the lover of Oriental mixtures, with their exotic and enticing incense-like aroma and brilliant flavour. Rub up a flake or two, fill a cherished pipe, and prepare for an exceptional smoking experience."
Very good stuff. Somewhat perfumy, due to the interaction of the Turkish tobacco with the Virginias. It's a solid tobacco, and quite one of the most enjoyable Virginia and Turkish melanges I have ever tasted. Often I find such blends to be pallid; this one satisfies in ways that are hard to describe. Yes, I swilled tea all day, in between sticking my head into the lounge to make snarky comments at cigar-smokers and stir up sh*t, but it wasn't from over-stimulation, but rather a sense of patronizing bonhomie.
[Thought: "You poor repulsive sods, all you have is penis objects, but I have a pipe, and this is some purely wonderful stuff, which you guys will never taste!"]
It's hard to resist such splendid tobacco. It is figgy, and smells degenerately refined. No idea what anyone's significant other would think of it. My own ex-significant other would probably disapprove -- she once came bustling out of her room at three in the morning to tell me to smoke the dead rat up at the abandoned church with all the other unwashed crazy people -- but it is quite possible that I could indulge in this product safely around sensitive souls. More Virginia than Turkish. Grassy, pale, silken, intensely happy-making, and possessed of balance and alluring subtlety.
At least I hope I could.
They will damned well have to put up with it.
This should age exceptionally well.
I am resolved to have more.
By the way, I expect Joe to give my regards to Mary and Kaz.
I wonder if they've tried this stuff yet.
The pipe club meeting lasted from pasta at lunch to whiskey around midnight. Much was discussed, in small groups that wandered around admiring Savinellis. There was wine and cheese, but my access was blocked by mobs of people, and I would have had to be more perfectly social to wade through them. The only wine I had that evening was what seeped into a cut from a broken bottle outside on the veranda.
Other than appreciating Savinelli pipes, I'm not sure the pipe club meeting actually had an agenda. If there was one, it escaped me. The president left fairly early, and several people flung money around in a frenzy.
It was a success.
AFTERWORD
My apartment mate, who is also my ex significant other, in addition to gifties gave me a birthday card. In it she wrote: "Dear Toad, Happy birthday to a gentleman and really nice person." (signed: 'Poot')
Yes, I'm rather pleased. It's nice to be thought well of, by someone of whom one likewise thinks very well.
A toad. A gentlemanly person. And a not particularly objectionable sort, all things considered.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Please note that the empowering phrase cited above strongly suggests TWO things: 1) he's immensely threatened by my blazing masculinity, and 2) this blogger has the magic power to scare random people. He could've also been offended by my pink Hello Kitty backpack, in which I carry smoking equipment and a selection of tobaccos on work days.
Hello Kitty emasculates fragile flowers.
On Thursday, Joe from Laudisi brought by some tobaccos for the pipe club. One of the tins being Gregory Pease's Regents Flake. After having one bowl, I decided to take a little home for further sampling.
I stuffed fully one third of the tin into a plastic bag.
Friday I only smoked one pipe, fairly late in the day, when the tobacco hangover from nine pipes enjoyed on Thursday had finally worn off.
None of the Greg Pease stuff.
Saturday morning it started raining.
It was a slow day.
Boring.
I had five bowls of Regents Flake.
REGENTS FLAKE
G. L. PEASE, OLD LONDON SERIES
Manufactured by Cornell & Diehl
Blurb: "A generous measure of fine Izmir leaf is layered on a sturdy foundation of mature red and sweet bright Virginia tobaccos, then pressed and allowed to mature and ferment in cakes before being sliced and tinned. This is one for the lover of Oriental mixtures, with their exotic and enticing incense-like aroma and brilliant flavour. Rub up a flake or two, fill a cherished pipe, and prepare for an exceptional smoking experience."
Very good stuff. Somewhat perfumy, due to the interaction of the Turkish tobacco with the Virginias. It's a solid tobacco, and quite one of the most enjoyable Virginia and Turkish melanges I have ever tasted. Often I find such blends to be pallid; this one satisfies in ways that are hard to describe. Yes, I swilled tea all day, in between sticking my head into the lounge to make snarky comments at cigar-smokers and stir up sh*t, but it wasn't from over-stimulation, but rather a sense of patronizing bonhomie.
[Thought: "You poor repulsive sods, all you have is penis objects, but I have a pipe, and this is some purely wonderful stuff, which you guys will never taste!"]
It's hard to resist such splendid tobacco. It is figgy, and smells degenerately refined. No idea what anyone's significant other would think of it. My own ex-significant other would probably disapprove -- she once came bustling out of her room at three in the morning to tell me to smoke the dead rat up at the abandoned church with all the other unwashed crazy people -- but it is quite possible that I could indulge in this product safely around sensitive souls. More Virginia than Turkish. Grassy, pale, silken, intensely happy-making, and possessed of balance and alluring subtlety.
At least I hope I could.
They will damned well have to put up with it.
This should age exceptionally well.
I am resolved to have more.
By the way, I expect Joe to give my regards to Mary and Kaz.
I wonder if they've tried this stuff yet.
The pipe club meeting lasted from pasta at lunch to whiskey around midnight. Much was discussed, in small groups that wandered around admiring Savinellis. There was wine and cheese, but my access was blocked by mobs of people, and I would have had to be more perfectly social to wade through them. The only wine I had that evening was what seeped into a cut from a broken bottle outside on the veranda.
Other than appreciating Savinelli pipes, I'm not sure the pipe club meeting actually had an agenda. If there was one, it escaped me. The president left fairly early, and several people flung money around in a frenzy.
It was a success.
AFTERWORD
My apartment mate, who is also my ex significant other, in addition to gifties gave me a birthday card. In it she wrote: "Dear Toad, Happy birthday to a gentleman and really nice person." (signed: 'Poot')
Yes, I'm rather pleased. It's nice to be thought well of, by someone of whom one likewise thinks very well.
A toad. A gentlemanly person. And a not particularly objectionable sort, all things considered.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, October 15, 2016
TOXIC WASTE THEATRE
A few people have wondered why I no longer discuss politics with them, though on occasion that subject is mentioned in conversation. And they may be somewhat aware of my snide intemperance on this blog.
I still avidly talk about such matters, albeit selectively.
They do too. But I refrain from responding.
It's a question of sanity.
At times I will drop a jab in the cigar lounge to taunt the old kackers. That happens rarely now, and I will try to limit it even more the closer we get to Trumpnik Riot Day (which will probably occur on Wednesday, November 9th.). The cigar bar is, as you would expect, also no longer quite so fond a part of my regular ronda.
"One must not argue with idiots, for they will drag you down to their level ... "
--- Mark Twain, allegedly.
"He may look like an idiot and talk like an idiot but don't let that fool you; he really is an idiot."
--- Grouch Marx, also allegedly.
I do not talk politics with my ex-girlfriend (helpmeet and companion for many years, still a good friend), but even when we were together I never did so. She is not as obsessed as I am, but I'm glad that we think so much alike. She too fervently wishes for the resounding defeat of the indecent bloat-faced pustule currently representing the dark side.
She has a far greater investment in seeing him go down in flames, as she is female, and of an ethnic minority background. I am white, male, and of an acceptable Protestant derivation, so theoretically it means less to me.
She considers Trump and his fanclub to be a disease.
A veritable plague, vipers on two legs.
I do not disagree at all.
Like many people, I celebrate the ongoing self-immolation of the GOP, which since the fifties transformed itself from a relatively benign social phenomenon into an Alien-like Predator hostile to humans.
Today's Republicans are stark-raving batshit. An evil cabal. There is no other way to describe them. They have become the party of narrowmindedness, religious rigidities, and fear.
They are not fit company.
I fervently hope that current events will cause them to decline, and fade even more from any possible relevance. The current poisonous effect of Trump's candidacy, Teapartyism, and the insane religious rantings of Pat Robertson (et genus idem serpentium), proves that these are not people who can be reasoned with, relied upon, or even trusted.
These folks are all Americans, and very American.
But they are completely un-American.
It's awfully white of them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I still avidly talk about such matters, albeit selectively.
They do too. But I refrain from responding.
It's a question of sanity.
At times I will drop a jab in the cigar lounge to taunt the old kackers. That happens rarely now, and I will try to limit it even more the closer we get to Trumpnik Riot Day (which will probably occur on Wednesday, November 9th.). The cigar bar is, as you would expect, also no longer quite so fond a part of my regular ronda.
"One must not argue with idiots, for they will drag you down to their level ... "
--- Mark Twain, allegedly.
"He may look like an idiot and talk like an idiot but don't let that fool you; he really is an idiot."
--- Grouch Marx, also allegedly.
I do not talk politics with my ex-girlfriend (helpmeet and companion for many years, still a good friend), but even when we were together I never did so. She is not as obsessed as I am, but I'm glad that we think so much alike. She too fervently wishes for the resounding defeat of the indecent bloat-faced pustule currently representing the dark side.
She has a far greater investment in seeing him go down in flames, as she is female, and of an ethnic minority background. I am white, male, and of an acceptable Protestant derivation, so theoretically it means less to me.
She considers Trump and his fanclub to be a disease.
A veritable plague, vipers on two legs.
I do not disagree at all.
Like many people, I celebrate the ongoing self-immolation of the GOP, which since the fifties transformed itself from a relatively benign social phenomenon into an Alien-like Predator hostile to humans.
Today's Republicans are stark-raving batshit. An evil cabal. There is no other way to describe them. They have become the party of narrowmindedness, religious rigidities, and fear.
They are not fit company.
I fervently hope that current events will cause them to decline, and fade even more from any possible relevance. The current poisonous effect of Trump's candidacy, Teapartyism, and the insane religious rantings of Pat Robertson (et genus idem serpentium), proves that these are not people who can be reasoned with, relied upon, or even trusted.
These folks are all Americans, and very American.
But they are completely un-American.
It's awfully white of them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, October 14, 2016
NIBBLES THAT DELIGHT THE MIND
The other day I had breakfast just before evening. Which should not surprise you; the typical bachelor doesn't get out of his comfy den till late, when it is a day off. Like, around tea-time. The Wing Hing Bakery around five-ish. An egg-custard tart, and a barbecue pork turnover. Flaky deliciousness, washed down with a hot (and yummy) milk-tea.
Now the thing is that I had been having hot beverages and a smoke since early morning. Had a long luxurious bath, went out to buy footpowder and a dozen rolls of bumwad (yay! we can poo again!), and had another smoke, more hot beverage.
Finished the book I was reading, and decided that the company of other sentient beings of the bipedal variety might be a jolly good thing.
I am not a freak. I feel that I should mention that.
Reading is a perfectly natural thing to do.
It alleviates hunger marvelously.
Didn't even notice.
At Wing Hing a little bespectacled girl was intently observing the old white woman who was arguing with herself. Normally little girls look at all the good things to eat -- it's a view both precious and intriguing to even the most intelligent tyke -- but it isn't every day that one can examine an entirely out-of-it antique ghost devil, so one must enjoy the sight while one can. Two other little girls came in, and soon also became fascinated.
The old lady didn't notice them at all.
She was deep in conversation.
With herself.
Adult Chinese folks know to not ever look directly at crazy whitey, because crazy whitey looks back. And reacts badly to eye-contact. Just pretend you don't notice the peculiar gibbering, dear, and select a pastry.
This is San Francisco. Many of "them" are unhinged.
It's a very white thing, apparently.
Free range eccentricity.
One of the little girls also looked at me. I never know what to do when that happens. Should I flap my coat and endeavor to lift off? Do I pretend that my hand is a dog, and about to pee against my teacup?
My pinky extends out, like a tiny hind leg ...
I try not to look back. One should avoid eye-contact with tiny persons.
One never knows what they will do next. Or how they will react.
A child once accused me of staring at her bag of jujubes.
I hadn't, and I felt quite unjustly maligned.
I usually avoid candy.
The little girls all left eventually, and the old white woman drifted off too. When the German tourists got up, I was the only customer in the place. The waitress remarked that my Cantonese was excellent, and asked if I could also write. Yes I can, because if I couldn't write, how could I read all the words on the pastry display?
I am not a freak.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Now the thing is that I had been having hot beverages and a smoke since early morning. Had a long luxurious bath, went out to buy footpowder and a dozen rolls of bumwad (yay! we can poo again!), and had another smoke, more hot beverage.
Finished the book I was reading, and decided that the company of other sentient beings of the bipedal variety might be a jolly good thing.
I am not a freak. I feel that I should mention that.
Reading is a perfectly natural thing to do.
It alleviates hunger marvelously.
Didn't even notice.
At Wing Hing a little bespectacled girl was intently observing the old white woman who was arguing with herself. Normally little girls look at all the good things to eat -- it's a view both precious and intriguing to even the most intelligent tyke -- but it isn't every day that one can examine an entirely out-of-it antique ghost devil, so one must enjoy the sight while one can. Two other little girls came in, and soon also became fascinated.
The old lady didn't notice them at all.
She was deep in conversation.
With herself.
Adult Chinese folks know to not ever look directly at crazy whitey, because crazy whitey looks back. And reacts badly to eye-contact. Just pretend you don't notice the peculiar gibbering, dear, and select a pastry.
This is San Francisco. Many of "them" are unhinged.
It's a very white thing, apparently.
Free range eccentricity.
One of the little girls also looked at me. I never know what to do when that happens. Should I flap my coat and endeavor to lift off? Do I pretend that my hand is a dog, and about to pee against my teacup?
My pinky extends out, like a tiny hind leg ...
I try not to look back. One should avoid eye-contact with tiny persons.
One never knows what they will do next. Or how they will react.
A child once accused me of staring at her bag of jujubes.
I hadn't, and I felt quite unjustly maligned.
I usually avoid candy.
The little girls all left eventually, and the old white woman drifted off too. When the German tourists got up, I was the only customer in the place. The waitress remarked that my Cantonese was excellent, and asked if I could also write. Yes I can, because if I couldn't write, how could I read all the words on the pastry display?
I am not a freak.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, October 13, 2016
THAT'S VERY GANDALF OF YOU
The worst are the Lord Of The Rings types. They always want a long churchwarden pipe to complete their 'image', and then they'll stuff an aromaticized tobacco that no one with a shred of taste or decency would smoke into it. Many of them also have eccentric hair.
Look, Buster, a pipe is NOT a style accessory.
Even while playing dungeons and dragons.
Or any other role playing game.
But for them it doesn't have to be a nice churchwarden, well-made, of good quality briar. It's just a prop, and consequently many of them will simply buy a crappy twelve dollar Eastern European pearwood pipe.
And the tobacco MUST smell Elvish, or Middle-Earthian.
[There's a product called 'Hobbit Weed' that capitalizes on that; two parts Black Cavendish Aromatic (vanilla), one part Lane's Very Cherry, and one part Sutliff 1M (more vanilla). If that does not please them, they will probably try 'Coffee-Toffee'. What matters is the visual of them being Tolkienesque.]
If there was such a place as The Shire, with hairy legged short people and visiting magicians, it would have a general store.
That also carried tobacco.
No, not any aromatics. No 'Peaches 'n Cream', 'Vanilla-toffee Cavendish', 'Mango Melba Blend', or 'Chocolate Whiskey Torte'.
Instead:
Capstan (a good reliable flake), Rattrays (a dozen very decent blends, from full Oriental to old-fashioned Virginias), a few Wessex tins, a few Dunhills, some McClellands and Greg Pease mixtures, Samuel Gawith products, and about a dozen others. Latakia blends, matured flue-cured tobacco with Perique, sliced coins. If you cannot find something worth smoking in that selection of thirty or so very nice tobaccos, maybe you are just not trying.
Too damned picky and fruity-looped perhaps?
A queer fish, with lousy tastes?
Mixture 79? Cherry?
Pervert!
Your tea is probably fruit-flavoured too. And there is a Halloween syrup in your Starbucks frappy.
You know, years ago people looked askance at tattoos and piercings.
You'll probably regret those when you finally grow up. Care to guess what old-age, saggy wrinkles, and liver spots, do to a highly individualistic multi-coloured Japonesque dragon?
Gandalf The Grey would assuredly rip your sophomoric icky-poo pretentiousness all to shreds.
He drank his coffee black and bitter, hated rooibos pumpkin spice tea or cinnamon-apple nectar, and smoked Samuel Gawith Black XX twist or Brown Rope No. 4. Because that was all he could get when travelling among the savage Orcs and Maoris. And that cheap-ass common clay churchwarden was only because he couldn't pack his lovely Upshalls, Sasienis, Charatans, or Castellos. Certainly not the prized silver banded GBD Rhodesian, nor the Patent Number Dunhills, or the Comoy London Prides and Blue Ribands.
When all this is over, he is going to retire to someplace where there are no buggery hobbits, chuck the churchwarden on the compost heap, pull out a Republic-Era Peterson, and smoke Gawith's Best Brown Flake, Golden Glow, or Full Virginia. Maybe even Orlik's Golden Sliced.
He's also going to get a haircut and trim the bushy beard. Because he's sick and tired of looking like an artist or a hippie.
And dress like you're normal, for crap's sake!
Pipe club meeting coming up.
Should be interesting.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Look, Buster, a pipe is NOT a style accessory.
Even while playing dungeons and dragons.
Or any other role playing game.
But for them it doesn't have to be a nice churchwarden, well-made, of good quality briar. It's just a prop, and consequently many of them will simply buy a crappy twelve dollar Eastern European pearwood pipe.
And the tobacco MUST smell Elvish, or Middle-Earthian.
[There's a product called 'Hobbit Weed' that capitalizes on that; two parts Black Cavendish Aromatic (vanilla), one part Lane's Very Cherry, and one part Sutliff 1M (more vanilla). If that does not please them, they will probably try 'Coffee-Toffee'. What matters is the visual of them being Tolkienesque.]
If there was such a place as The Shire, with hairy legged short people and visiting magicians, it would have a general store.
That also carried tobacco.
No, not any aromatics. No 'Peaches 'n Cream', 'Vanilla-toffee Cavendish', 'Mango Melba Blend', or 'Chocolate Whiskey Torte'.
Instead:
Capstan (a good reliable flake), Rattrays (a dozen very decent blends, from full Oriental to old-fashioned Virginias), a few Wessex tins, a few Dunhills, some McClellands and Greg Pease mixtures, Samuel Gawith products, and about a dozen others. Latakia blends, matured flue-cured tobacco with Perique, sliced coins. If you cannot find something worth smoking in that selection of thirty or so very nice tobaccos, maybe you are just not trying.
Too damned picky and fruity-looped perhaps?
A queer fish, with lousy tastes?
Mixture 79? Cherry?
Pervert!
Your tea is probably fruit-flavoured too. And there is a Halloween syrup in your Starbucks frappy.
You know, years ago people looked askance at tattoos and piercings.
You'll probably regret those when you finally grow up. Care to guess what old-age, saggy wrinkles, and liver spots, do to a highly individualistic multi-coloured Japonesque dragon?
Gandalf The Grey would assuredly rip your sophomoric icky-poo pretentiousness all to shreds.
He drank his coffee black and bitter, hated rooibos pumpkin spice tea or cinnamon-apple nectar, and smoked Samuel Gawith Black XX twist or Brown Rope No. 4. Because that was all he could get when travelling among the savage Orcs and Maoris. And that cheap-ass common clay churchwarden was only because he couldn't pack his lovely Upshalls, Sasienis, Charatans, or Castellos. Certainly not the prized silver banded GBD Rhodesian, nor the Patent Number Dunhills, or the Comoy London Prides and Blue Ribands.
When all this is over, he is going to retire to someplace where there are no buggery hobbits, chuck the churchwarden on the compost heap, pull out a Republic-Era Peterson, and smoke Gawith's Best Brown Flake, Golden Glow, or Full Virginia. Maybe even Orlik's Golden Sliced.
He's also going to get a haircut and trim the bushy beard. Because he's sick and tired of looking like an artist or a hippie.
And dress like you're normal, for crap's sake!
Pipe club meeting coming up.
Should be interesting.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
LATE DEW PEARLS MY FUR
Much of my present tastes derive from growing up in the hinterlands of Brabant in a house with a huge number of books. One is not far from the modern world there, but the world is, conveniently, at arms length. Literally. I knew what was going elsewhere, and had a fair impression of trends and cultural developments. The T'ang Dynasty, sculptures by Henry Moore, Francis Bacon's paintings, operas by Brecht and Weill .....
When my family moved to Holland, my parents packed all of their books along, and once settled, started ordering from shops in civilization that shipped abroad.
There was only one local bookstore -- Priem's -- which had mostly stuff in Dutch, and a very small selection in French, German, and English.
I spent innumerable hours within, happily reading hidden behind the stacks. I'm sure they knew what I was doing, but as long as you leave the literature unstained and undamaged, and are quiet and well-behaved, bookstores rather approve of you exercising your literacy.
Yes, I also spent money there.
Adolescents did not used to have much in the way of funds. And some of that had to go for pipe tobacco, and the occasional tin of tea. The tobacco seller next door to Priem's was not quite satisfactory, and I soon gravitated toward a small but more pleasant place further down the Eindhovensche Weg, where the owner opportunistically sold me all the English tobacco he carried. Mostly Balkan Sobranie mixture, a brief interruption for some Dunhill blends, and, once in a blue moon, something Danish and rather steamed.
I looked forward to my weekly visit; there is something just so appealing and comforting about a fresh full tin. One really does feel on top of the world when cracking it open, stuffing a load into a pipe, and lighting up. Full pot of hot tea on the table, crisp newspapers, one light on, and total quiet in the building, while the weather blatters and blasts on the street outside.
For years I convinced myself that I was social. Now I have realized that while I like people around me, I do not want to talk to most of them.
All I really want, most of the time, is to be inside with a pipe, a beverage and a snack if possible, and for the loud and unpleasant people to be outside in the rain.
Maybe a spot of sherry or Scotch, later.
San Francisco provides fractions of all of that. Last night the air was rich with moisture. Not really fog, so much as apathetic precipitation, which rendered one damp upon returning in the wee hours.
Earlier in the evening I had dined on roast duck over rice at the Kam Po, followed by a pipe while wandering along Stockton, then down Washington to Walter Lum Place. By that time most of the real stores had closed, leaving just the souvenir emporia open for the lumbering tourists.
The bookstore just below Grant used to be open till nine in the evening. Now they shut down at six. One can no longer browse as late, nor buy several newspapers to read at a nearby bakery or chachanteng.
If shopping for literacy, shop early.
Chinatown is changing, but it is still sweet. One can get a hot cup of milk tea, and one or two places are open in the evening for the old men who need to buy a fresh pack of smokes after dark. Double Happiness Brand, or Longevity in the black packs. Two liquor stores; if you need some clear liquor or faatiu shaohsing wine, we can do that.
The latter tastes remarkably like sherry.
Under the light near the playground, old people are still playing cards.
I did not go visit the parrots in Sue Bierman Park.
One cannot see them at night.
Whenever I think of Valkenswaard, it's almost always of fallen leaves.
At present the weather has become more autumnal in San Francisco. Darkness comes earlier, evenings are cool, verging on cold. The rainy season is almost upon us, sooner than expected. I hope it downpours for the next few months, and washes away all the e-commerce yuppies. They need to go back to that "elsewhere" in the country where they came from.
These are folks who dress funny and eat too much.
Their presence is not salubrious.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
When my family moved to Holland, my parents packed all of their books along, and once settled, started ordering from shops in civilization that shipped abroad.
There was only one local bookstore -- Priem's -- which had mostly stuff in Dutch, and a very small selection in French, German, and English.
I spent innumerable hours within, happily reading hidden behind the stacks. I'm sure they knew what I was doing, but as long as you leave the literature unstained and undamaged, and are quiet and well-behaved, bookstores rather approve of you exercising your literacy.
Yes, I also spent money there.
Adolescents did not used to have much in the way of funds. And some of that had to go for pipe tobacco, and the occasional tin of tea. The tobacco seller next door to Priem's was not quite satisfactory, and I soon gravitated toward a small but more pleasant place further down the Eindhovensche Weg, where the owner opportunistically sold me all the English tobacco he carried. Mostly Balkan Sobranie mixture, a brief interruption for some Dunhill blends, and, once in a blue moon, something Danish and rather steamed.
I looked forward to my weekly visit; there is something just so appealing and comforting about a fresh full tin. One really does feel on top of the world when cracking it open, stuffing a load into a pipe, and lighting up. Full pot of hot tea on the table, crisp newspapers, one light on, and total quiet in the building, while the weather blatters and blasts on the street outside.
For years I convinced myself that I was social. Now I have realized that while I like people around me, I do not want to talk to most of them.
All I really want, most of the time, is to be inside with a pipe, a beverage and a snack if possible, and for the loud and unpleasant people to be outside in the rain.
Maybe a spot of sherry or Scotch, later.
San Francisco provides fractions of all of that. Last night the air was rich with moisture. Not really fog, so much as apathetic precipitation, which rendered one damp upon returning in the wee hours.
Earlier in the evening I had dined on roast duck over rice at the Kam Po, followed by a pipe while wandering along Stockton, then down Washington to Walter Lum Place. By that time most of the real stores had closed, leaving just the souvenir emporia open for the lumbering tourists.
The bookstore just below Grant used to be open till nine in the evening. Now they shut down at six. One can no longer browse as late, nor buy several newspapers to read at a nearby bakery or chachanteng.
If shopping for literacy, shop early.
Chinatown is changing, but it is still sweet. One can get a hot cup of milk tea, and one or two places are open in the evening for the old men who need to buy a fresh pack of smokes after dark. Double Happiness Brand, or Longevity in the black packs. Two liquor stores; if you need some clear liquor or faatiu shaohsing wine, we can do that.
The latter tastes remarkably like sherry.
Under the light near the playground, old people are still playing cards.
I did not go visit the parrots in Sue Bierman Park.
One cannot see them at night.
Whenever I think of Valkenswaard, it's almost always of fallen leaves.
At present the weather has become more autumnal in San Francisco. Darkness comes earlier, evenings are cool, verging on cold. The rainy season is almost upon us, sooner than expected. I hope it downpours for the next few months, and washes away all the e-commerce yuppies. They need to go back to that "elsewhere" in the country where they came from.
These are folks who dress funny and eat too much.
Their presence is not salubrious.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, October 11, 2016
PUSSY, PUSSY, PUSSY, PUSSY, PUSSY!
Oh good lord no, I don't want to watch Barbara Bush talking about menstruation! Or any other Republican, for that matter. Republicans should be banned from EVER mentioning anything that deals, even remotely, with women's reproductive parts, secondary sexual characteristics, hormonal states, or even appearance. They tend to put their own into their mouth whenever they do so. It's like they become giant scrotal sacks.
On the other hand, Samantha Bee can give me an angry lecture anytime. She's just so eloquent! A real man likes an eloquent woman who makes sense and scores rhetorical points -- vote for Clinton! -- and honestly doesn't mind pantsuits. Some of my favourite college professors wore pantsuits.
[The pantsuit is the DIRECT descendant of the 1970's leisure suit. Fortunately those have gone out of fashion, but I really wish that women would wear skirts instead.
They'd look so much better. Like Scotsmen.]
Actually I probably wouldn't mind discussing menstruation with first lady Barbara Bush. Or other subjects. She's a very intelligent woman.
Here's Samantha Bee.
PUSSY RIOT - SAMANTHA BEE, PART ONE
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_gk72KC4jWc.]
PUSSY RIOT - SAMANTHA BEE, PART TWO
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltU3ms9rt5w.]
Yes, I have finally watched Donald Trump saying "grab them by the pussy". But only because it was in the context of Samantha Bee ripping him, Ted Cruz, and Paul Ryan, to shreds. That is probably the most I can stand of the rancid coagulation of America's misogyny and racism that is Donald Trump for one day.
Possibly for the week.
Unfortunately he's bound to say something equally repulsive within less than twenty four hours. Or tweet-storm it at three in the morning.
With squiggly worm-like pudgy fingers typing furiously.
Donald, a cellphone is NOT a pussy.
Tweet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
On the other hand, Samantha Bee can give me an angry lecture anytime. She's just so eloquent! A real man likes an eloquent woman who makes sense and scores rhetorical points -- vote for Clinton! -- and honestly doesn't mind pantsuits. Some of my favourite college professors wore pantsuits.
[The pantsuit is the DIRECT descendant of the 1970's leisure suit. Fortunately those have gone out of fashion, but I really wish that women would wear skirts instead.
They'd look so much better. Like Scotsmen.]
Actually I probably wouldn't mind discussing menstruation with first lady Barbara Bush. Or other subjects. She's a very intelligent woman.
Here's Samantha Bee.
PUSSY RIOT - SAMANTHA BEE, PART ONE
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_gk72KC4jWc.]
PUSSY RIOT - SAMANTHA BEE, PART TWO
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltU3ms9rt5w.]
Yes, I have finally watched Donald Trump saying "grab them by the pussy". But only because it was in the context of Samantha Bee ripping him, Ted Cruz, and Paul Ryan, to shreds. That is probably the most I can stand of the rancid coagulation of America's misogyny and racism that is Donald Trump for one day.
Possibly for the week.
Unfortunately he's bound to say something equally repulsive within less than twenty four hours. Or tweet-storm it at three in the morning.
With squiggly worm-like pudgy fingers typing furiously.
Donald, a cellphone is NOT a pussy.
Tweet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FACEBOOK'S OVERLAPPING ECHOES
As usual I visited Facebook over coffee this morning. Not so much to see what my FB friends are up to -- though their everyday lives are fascinating, FASCINATING! they mostly do boring mundane things that cannot hold my attention, what with being an egomaniac and self-centered -- as to be aprised of news, opinions, valid rhetorical points (which I may steal), political shenanigans, important events, and cute animal videos.
Yes, Facebook is overflowing with Trump. I almost feel sorry for him.
But they need to be dropping flaming turds on him from a great height while he writhes around naked and terrified, clutching his gonads with icky short stubby fingers, for me to start actually sympathizing somewhat.
Slighty. It's a trace of Christianity.
That's probably not going to happen till President Hillary appoints a special prosecutor.
Underneath one entry I left a comment which I wish to quote here:
"My facebook is mostly an echo chamber. I do not want to associate with idiots, racists, and fascists. A man is known by the company he keeps, and dealing with crazies makes one crazy. That is NOT how I want to spend any of my time.
Batshit infects."
That had me wondering what my choice of friends says about me.
Out of 275 Facebook friends, 82 are Jewish. Women comprise 79 of the total. Thirty nine people are Chinese. Thirty two are pipe smokers. There are about twenty speakers of Dutch, Afrikaans, and German.
One out of seven lives outside the States.
Some of these categories overlap.
And a few smoke cigars.
NOT A SINGLE ONE IS A JEWISH PIPE-SMOKING WOMAN!
Or a female pipe-smoker who is Chinese, and speaks Dutch.
Somehow I feel that there is something missing in my life.
But I'm not going to worry about it.
I like to think that my Facebook friends represent the real America.
The America that one thinks about when fresh-baked apple pie is mentioned, and hot dogs, riots, mom, the flag, and chop suey.
Please commence some cheering.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yes, Facebook is overflowing with Trump. I almost feel sorry for him.
But they need to be dropping flaming turds on him from a great height while he writhes around naked and terrified, clutching his gonads with icky short stubby fingers, for me to start actually sympathizing somewhat.
Slighty. It's a trace of Christianity.
That's probably not going to happen till President Hillary appoints a special prosecutor.
Underneath one entry I left a comment which I wish to quote here:
"My facebook is mostly an echo chamber. I do not want to associate with idiots, racists, and fascists. A man is known by the company he keeps, and dealing with crazies makes one crazy. That is NOT how I want to spend any of my time.
Batshit infects."
That had me wondering what my choice of friends says about me.
Out of 275 Facebook friends, 82 are Jewish. Women comprise 79 of the total. Thirty nine people are Chinese. Thirty two are pipe smokers. There are about twenty speakers of Dutch, Afrikaans, and German.
One out of seven lives outside the States.
Some of these categories overlap.
And a few smoke cigars.
NOT A SINGLE ONE IS A JEWISH PIPE-SMOKING WOMAN!
Or a female pipe-smoker who is Chinese, and speaks Dutch.
Somehow I feel that there is something missing in my life.
But I'm not going to worry about it.
I like to think that my Facebook friends represent the real America.
The America that one thinks about when fresh-baked apple pie is mentioned, and hot dogs, riots, mom, the flag, and chop suey.
Please commence some cheering.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, October 10, 2016
RICH PRIVILEGED PLAYGROUND BULLY
In life, three of the most monumental ways to waste your time, and infuriating too, are reading the comments, arguing with a Jewish Republican, and watching Donald Trump.
The crazies inhabit the comment strings, Jewish Republicans are always Republicans first and Jews second but you are an anti-Semite or self-hating Jew, and no Trump sex tape is that good
I congratulate myself on NOT watching any single second of the debate on Sunday night. This evening, after reading several comments, and chancing upon an opinion on a pro-Israel page, I clicked on a link.
And saw all of THREE revolting minutes.
Trump is diseased.
"Perhaps it is imprudent to nominate a venomous charlatan"
George F. Will, writing in the Washington Post
I understand that elsewhere in this country there are people so enamoured of Donald Trump that they sat in front of their teevee set with their families, cheering whenever he opened his mouth. And a person whom I very much like has actually lauded him as a Christian, a G-d fearing man.
Lord save us from such G-d fearing men.
Another friend happily opines that "the entire Republican Party is a basket of deplorables". You know something? He's right. The entire Republican Party is a basket of deplorables. Even the ones leaving the sinking ship. The worst, the very worst, utter America-hating scum, are the mental midgets and ethical-defectives who have redoubled their adulation.
Rudy Giuliani and Ted Cruz have no pride whatsoever.
They're whores without a shred of decency.
Panderers and opportunists.
Cadaver-eaters.
Trump is unclean. That is no human being worthy of consideration, but a venomous crude bigoted racist women-hating vulgarian bully, a certifiable psychpath, possibly daemonically possessed, probably a spreader of venereal disease, and believably a sexual predator.
Trump does not, and cannot, represent the United States.
Except, maybe, the deplorable segment.
"The entire Republican Party is a basket of deplorables!"
All of the Republican contenders running for nomination were pretty bad, but the Republicans went ahead and picked the worst one.
A sub-human, lord-'elp-us.
With ugly pudgy little fingers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The crazies inhabit the comment strings, Jewish Republicans are always Republicans first and Jews second but you are an anti-Semite or self-hating Jew, and no Trump sex tape is that good
I congratulate myself on NOT watching any single second of the debate on Sunday night. This evening, after reading several comments, and chancing upon an opinion on a pro-Israel page, I clicked on a link.
And saw all of THREE revolting minutes.
Trump is diseased.
"Perhaps it is imprudent to nominate a venomous charlatan"
George F. Will, writing in the Washington Post
I understand that elsewhere in this country there are people so enamoured of Donald Trump that they sat in front of their teevee set with their families, cheering whenever he opened his mouth. And a person whom I very much like has actually lauded him as a Christian, a G-d fearing man.
Lord save us from such G-d fearing men.
Another friend happily opines that "the entire Republican Party is a basket of deplorables". You know something? He's right. The entire Republican Party is a basket of deplorables. Even the ones leaving the sinking ship. The worst, the very worst, utter America-hating scum, are the mental midgets and ethical-defectives who have redoubled their adulation.
Rudy Giuliani and Ted Cruz have no pride whatsoever.
They're whores without a shred of decency.
Panderers and opportunists.
Cadaver-eaters.
Trump is unclean. That is no human being worthy of consideration, but a venomous crude bigoted racist women-hating vulgarian bully, a certifiable psychpath, possibly daemonically possessed, probably a spreader of venereal disease, and believably a sexual predator.
Trump does not, and cannot, represent the United States.
Except, maybe, the deplorable segment.
"The entire Republican Party is a basket of deplorables!"
All of the Republican contenders running for nomination were pretty bad, but the Republicans went ahead and picked the worst one.
A sub-human, lord-'elp-us.
With ugly pudgy little fingers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
YOUR NUMBERED JERSEY OFFENDS ME
The other day I asked an acquaintance a sports-related question. He responded by giving me an algorithm. Sports, clearly, brings out the inner-autist. No, I have no clue how he expected his answer to compute.
Please do not mention any ball-games to me.
I shall consider that micro-aggression.
And also a form of discrimination.
I am not into homo-erotic past-times.
Or fetishisms based on sweat.
It is all scrotal.
Balls.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Please do not mention any ball-games to me.
I shall consider that micro-aggression.
And also a form of discrimination.
I am not into homo-erotic past-times.
Or fetishisms based on sweat.
It is all scrotal.
Balls.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, October 09, 2016
THE CANTONESE BURDEN
On the way to Marin this morning some Mainland tourists were hogging up the seats. Six couples (twelve bipeds) who did not wish to sit with each other, OR at the window seats. Or allow anyone to sit next to them. When they got off at the bridge, over twenty people from further back in the bus moved forward. There. They're gone. Them and their horrible sounding language. A person of Cantonese appearance hissed "sze dalu-ren" at their departing fatty backs, and harmony settled over the bus.
[Sze dalu-ren: 死大陸人 "dead (damned) mainland person". Which in proper Cantonese pronunciation would have been 'sei taai lok yan', but then the overfed fuerhtaipiaogun (富二代表群 'fu yi-doi piu-kwan') would not possibly have understood. Many mainlanders from places away from the coast do not understand anything other than Mandarin, being in that regard very much like our fellows from the flyovers with the English that Jesus spoke.]
For about ten minutes I got to listen to Hong Kong Auntie vociferate on her cellphone about those folks. I should have taken notes, but I was too obsessed with crawling into my skull and getting the serious head-time that the Mandarin-speakers had prevented.
When she got off in Marin City she was still disgruntled.
Those seats further back are very uncomfortable.
And smell like pot smokers.
Unlike native speakers of Cantonese, I actually like Mandarin types. They are so delightfully innocent and un-knowing of many things. It's like dealing with people who have lost their owners manual.
I say this in the friendliest way possible.
But in all honesty, all their vacation photos are probably going to be so boring. EVERYBODY has the bridge, the pyramid, the crooked street. Instead, they should go to East Oakland, and see how the locals live. Perhaps score a drive-by or a transaction in the background of their pictures. "This is me in front of a massive police presence", or "look at all the friendly natives". You know, something unique and educational.
Think of the stories they can tell when they get home.
And it will contribute bucket-loads to cross-cultural understanding.
While simultaneously not pissing-off the Cantonese.
Or, for that matter, anybody else.
Seeing as A) there is a Cantonese person in my apartment, B) I head down into Chinatown a lot, and C) I can speak Cantonese to a limited degree, you can understand that 'the-not-pissing-off-of-Cantonese persons' ranks very high on my priority list. The Cantonese are, in some regards, my canaries in the coal mine. If any Cantonese people in my immediate vicinity are steaming mad, it may affect me or rub off.
Possibly there are very good reasons for off-pissedness, or they are full of boundless generosity about sharing it. Vociferously. At length.
Sending Mandarin-speakers to East Oakland is benign self-interest.
I too want them to have a memorable experience.
Somewhere else.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[Sze dalu-ren: 死大陸人 "dead (damned) mainland person". Which in proper Cantonese pronunciation would have been 'sei taai lok yan', but then the overfed fuerhtaipiaogun (富二代表群 'fu yi-doi piu-kwan') would not possibly have understood. Many mainlanders from places away from the coast do not understand anything other than Mandarin, being in that regard very much like our fellows from the flyovers with the English that Jesus spoke.]
For about ten minutes I got to listen to Hong Kong Auntie vociferate on her cellphone about those folks. I should have taken notes, but I was too obsessed with crawling into my skull and getting the serious head-time that the Mandarin-speakers had prevented.
When she got off in Marin City she was still disgruntled.
Those seats further back are very uncomfortable.
And smell like pot smokers.
Unlike native speakers of Cantonese, I actually like Mandarin types. They are so delightfully innocent and un-knowing of many things. It's like dealing with people who have lost their owners manual.
I say this in the friendliest way possible.
But in all honesty, all their vacation photos are probably going to be so boring. EVERYBODY has the bridge, the pyramid, the crooked street. Instead, they should go to East Oakland, and see how the locals live. Perhaps score a drive-by or a transaction in the background of their pictures. "This is me in front of a massive police presence", or "look at all the friendly natives". You know, something unique and educational.
Think of the stories they can tell when they get home.
And it will contribute bucket-loads to cross-cultural understanding.
While simultaneously not pissing-off the Cantonese.
Or, for that matter, anybody else.
Seeing as A) there is a Cantonese person in my apartment, B) I head down into Chinatown a lot, and C) I can speak Cantonese to a limited degree, you can understand that 'the-not-pissing-off-of-Cantonese persons' ranks very high on my priority list. The Cantonese are, in some regards, my canaries in the coal mine. If any Cantonese people in my immediate vicinity are steaming mad, it may affect me or rub off.
Possibly there are very good reasons for off-pissedness, or they are full of boundless generosity about sharing it. Vociferously. At length.
Sending Mandarin-speakers to East Oakland is benign self-interest.
I too want them to have a memorable experience.
Somewhere else.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PLEASE DO NOT GRAB!
You know I like to research weird bits, right? Apropos of Donald Trump, last night I looked up 'cloaca'. Which is the general purpose orifice that snakes, lizards, and amphibians have. As well as numerous other non-mammalian creatures, and a very limited number of mammals.
As a general word of advice, do NOT grab at a snake's cloaca. Especially a feisty live rattler. No, this isn't something based on experience, but sound common sense.
Related thereto, I found out that the New World possum has a bifurcated penis that would fit perfectly into Donald Trump's nose. Or probably did.
Makes you wonder why he was sniffing during the debate a few weeks ago. Or what. What did he sniff?
Donald Trump is the chosen representative of the Republican Party.
Their champion, frontrunner, and standard bearer.
Solid Christian values.
On a slightly related note, I am so very very glad that my apartment mate pays little attention to the news, and no attention whatsoever to social media. She is very Aspy, and of Cantonese extraction though local born. Both of those details are relevant, because the only possible upside to her being aware what Donald Trump said about women, if she ever finds out about it, would be that my Cantonese vocabulary would improve by virtue of hearing a long, passionate, angry, and extremely repetitive Asperger-y rant, partly in English, partly in Toishan dialect. Which would be two to three hours of my life I would never get back.
[Full disclosure: I likewise am Aspy, albeit manageably mildly. The blog, which is in its eleventh year, is testimony to that. Food, pipe tobacco, Hong Kong milk tea, and the occasional obsession.]
Her boyfriend should get that rant.
Not me. I'm innocent.
One cannot call Donald Trump a skunk, because skunks are intelligent social animals, and very cute. But American possums are remarkably ugly critters, which look like deathshead rodents. The flesh is oily and greasy, and when prepared for eating the beast has to be washed thoroughly after skinning and gutting. Ginger and parsley are useful additions to the pot, as are various tubers. I would also add a chili or two, as well as cumin, black pepper,and nutmeg. First sauté some chopped onion, celery, and tomato, then add everything else. Cook till falling off the bone tender.
It will still taste overwhelmingly like possum, though.
The possum has a bifurcated penis.
And stubby fingers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
As a general word of advice, do NOT grab at a snake's cloaca. Especially a feisty live rattler. No, this isn't something based on experience, but sound common sense.
Related thereto, I found out that the New World possum has a bifurcated penis that would fit perfectly into Donald Trump's nose. Or probably did.
Makes you wonder why he was sniffing during the debate a few weeks ago. Or what. What did he sniff?
Donald Trump is the chosen representative of the Republican Party.
Their champion, frontrunner, and standard bearer.
Solid Christian values.
On a slightly related note, I am so very very glad that my apartment mate pays little attention to the news, and no attention whatsoever to social media. She is very Aspy, and of Cantonese extraction though local born. Both of those details are relevant, because the only possible upside to her being aware what Donald Trump said about women, if she ever finds out about it, would be that my Cantonese vocabulary would improve by virtue of hearing a long, passionate, angry, and extremely repetitive Asperger-y rant, partly in English, partly in Toishan dialect. Which would be two to three hours of my life I would never get back.
[Full disclosure: I likewise am Aspy, albeit manageably mildly. The blog, which is in its eleventh year, is testimony to that. Food, pipe tobacco, Hong Kong milk tea, and the occasional obsession.]
Her boyfriend should get that rant.
Not me. I'm innocent.
One cannot call Donald Trump a skunk, because skunks are intelligent social animals, and very cute. But American possums are remarkably ugly critters, which look like deathshead rodents. The flesh is oily and greasy, and when prepared for eating the beast has to be washed thoroughly after skinning and gutting. Ginger and parsley are useful additions to the pot, as are various tubers. I would also add a chili or two, as well as cumin, black pepper,and nutmeg. First sauté some chopped onion, celery, and tomato, then add everything else. Cook till falling off the bone tender.
It will still taste overwhelmingly like possum, though.
The possum has a bifurcated penis.
And stubby fingers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, October 08, 2016
A COLLECTION OF THE ELDERLY
After I few moments I realized what set me apart form the elderly men sitting in the bakery. Two things. First one being that I was not having coffee, but was drinking a yuen-yeung. Secondly, my hair was not white. Salt and peppery, sure, but theirs was all white. In other words, I am just the blooming epitome of bouncing ruddy good youth.
They are all severely senior. White haired.
Creak ... creak ... creak ...
Of course, I was also the only one suffering from the heat. Having spent my childhood in the frigid boggy north, I cannot deal with this climate.
I would far rather be naked, but the problem is that one cannot be naked in public -- out of considerations of good taste, chafing, and one's fellow citizens' thin connection to equanimity and peace of mind -- and being naked in private is, more or less, a statement, if one has an apartment mate. One should always be selective about one's nudity.
Unless one is utterly alone.
Then not.
Given a choice of shared nudity or solitary nudity, I would rather have the shared nudity, but only if I could choose the other willing person.
Otherwise, I should be alone. You, I''m sure, think so too.
In this heat, it would have to be passive and reclining nudity, perhaps with languorous fans and lots of liquids, while gazing up at the ceiling and listening to yowling yuppie baseball fans on Polk Street.
Active nudity in all probability occurs during the off-season.
One more reason to hate organized sports.
Not that I needed it.
I do not ever need to be naked in that bakery. Chinatown does not want one of their favourite sit-down places to go nudist. And it would affect the taste of the pastries.
Plus, if I were to spill my hot beverage, it could get embarrassing.
AFTER THOUGHT
What should one do when one is companionably naked with another person during hot weather? One tries not to stare (or at least not get caught doing so), and one offers to make some tea. Does the other person want cold tea? There are ice cubes. Lemon, unless one prepared for this in advance, is sadly missing, but there is a choice of teas. Sorry, no, I do not have pumpkin spice or lime-tangerine zingy dingy; there's green, three different oolongs, pu erh, and two black teas.
Nothing sticky.
Let us assume that the nudity was a spontaneous decision, a bright spur of the moment inspiration, between two consenting adults. Not three. Not four. More than two would be uncomfortable and embarrassing. One shall also assume that they are not strangers, and have positive regards for each other. This despite the fact that it is too hot for any physical contact, skin to skin. Merely being naked seems like a mighty good idea. Blinds drawn, for that deceptive cooling effect that the shade provides, and perhaps a moist cloth to lay across the brow. Brows. Two brows.
If there is any television to be watched, it shall be mutually decided upon (meaning most likely NOT the weather channel), and there will be drinks. Probably ice tea. It is important to remain properly hydrated. Though the blinds are down, the windows are open. It provides a cross-draft.
And lets the smoke escape.
Can't go outside to smoke; I'm not decent.
I know, near the kitchen window.
With a bathrobe.
It's too warm to do anything. We should read and doze. Or take a shower. Either together or separate, whatever seems best.
Dinner? Maybe later. Once it has cooled down.
Meanwhile, I'll make some more tea.
Am I over-thinking this?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
They are all severely senior. White haired.
Creak ... creak ... creak ...
Of course, I was also the only one suffering from the heat. Having spent my childhood in the frigid boggy north, I cannot deal with this climate.
I would far rather be naked, but the problem is that one cannot be naked in public -- out of considerations of good taste, chafing, and one's fellow citizens' thin connection to equanimity and peace of mind -- and being naked in private is, more or less, a statement, if one has an apartment mate. One should always be selective about one's nudity.
Unless one is utterly alone.
Then not.
Given a choice of shared nudity or solitary nudity, I would rather have the shared nudity, but only if I could choose the other willing person.
Otherwise, I should be alone. You, I''m sure, think so too.
In this heat, it would have to be passive and reclining nudity, perhaps with languorous fans and lots of liquids, while gazing up at the ceiling and listening to yowling yuppie baseball fans on Polk Street.
Active nudity in all probability occurs during the off-season.
One more reason to hate organized sports.
Not that I needed it.
I do not ever need to be naked in that bakery. Chinatown does not want one of their favourite sit-down places to go nudist. And it would affect the taste of the pastries.
Plus, if I were to spill my hot beverage, it could get embarrassing.
AFTER THOUGHT
What should one do when one is companionably naked with another person during hot weather? One tries not to stare (or at least not get caught doing so), and one offers to make some tea. Does the other person want cold tea? There are ice cubes. Lemon, unless one prepared for this in advance, is sadly missing, but there is a choice of teas. Sorry, no, I do not have pumpkin spice or lime-tangerine zingy dingy; there's green, three different oolongs, pu erh, and two black teas.
Nothing sticky.
Let us assume that the nudity was a spontaneous decision, a bright spur of the moment inspiration, between two consenting adults. Not three. Not four. More than two would be uncomfortable and embarrassing. One shall also assume that they are not strangers, and have positive regards for each other. This despite the fact that it is too hot for any physical contact, skin to skin. Merely being naked seems like a mighty good idea. Blinds drawn, for that deceptive cooling effect that the shade provides, and perhaps a moist cloth to lay across the brow. Brows. Two brows.
If there is any television to be watched, it shall be mutually decided upon (meaning most likely NOT the weather channel), and there will be drinks. Probably ice tea. It is important to remain properly hydrated. Though the blinds are down, the windows are open. It provides a cross-draft.
And lets the smoke escape.
Can't go outside to smoke; I'm not decent.
I know, near the kitchen window.
With a bathrobe.
It's too warm to do anything. We should read and doze. Or take a shower. Either together or separate, whatever seems best.
Dinner? Maybe later. Once it has cooled down.
Meanwhile, I'll make some more tea.
Am I over-thinking this?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, October 07, 2016
FRAGRANCE AND SOFT MURMURING
What San Francisco needs is an Indonesian restaurant that gears itself toward one key demographic: middle-aged Dutchmen. So, none of that fake Indonesian food which is popular among the late night crowd in the Netherlands, or the bland somewhat Chinese-taste stuff cooked by ex-Jakartans that is available locally, but something relatively authentic and relatively spicy. With enough of a selection that intelligent choices can be made for a rijsttafel.
Decor, too. Walls mostly a warm ochre-cream, with Raw Sienna and a dark mahogany-umber detailing. Bamboo slat or matchstick blinds. Fine porcelain, good cutlery, the occasional fern or potted plant, and absolutely none of that painted or carved wood kitsch that every Asian restaurant seems to have all over. Decent non-glaring lighting, neither forensics laboratory bright nor old-troll dark and moody.
The one key dish it MUST have is a damned fine soto ayam. Which is rich chicken soup yellowed with turmeric, with fresh chicken meat, slices of fried potato INSTEAD of lontong, cilantro, Chinese parsley, and fried shallots plus krupuk or emping as garnish.
The broth should be flavoured with fried shallots, coriander, and ginger.
Plus kemiri nuts, lemon grass, galangal, and dried shrimp.
Noodles optional, for a version of Mie Soto.
Nasi goreng (fried rice) or bami goreng (fried noodles) are also kind of essential, but they really aren't that necessary. Excellent saté, preferable both chicken and lamb, plus petjil, and two or three home-made sambal.
Rice, cucumber chunks, chilled squiggle drinks.
Good strong coffee, either iced or hot.
Korma, kalio, gulai, rawon.
And NO music!
The last Indonesian restaurant at which I ate had karaoke videos. Really, popular music is mostly pig-bollocks in every culture, and sappy emotional ballads in Indonesian are probably the ultimate nightmare.
Either that or meaningful gamelan music.
One other thing: most "ethnic" menus abound in clumsy spelling errors. Gentlemen, this does NOT add to the charm of your place, but rather severely detracts from it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Decor, too. Walls mostly a warm ochre-cream, with Raw Sienna and a dark mahogany-umber detailing. Bamboo slat or matchstick blinds. Fine porcelain, good cutlery, the occasional fern or potted plant, and absolutely none of that painted or carved wood kitsch that every Asian restaurant seems to have all over. Decent non-glaring lighting, neither forensics laboratory bright nor old-troll dark and moody.
The one key dish it MUST have is a damned fine soto ayam. Which is rich chicken soup yellowed with turmeric, with fresh chicken meat, slices of fried potato INSTEAD of lontong, cilantro, Chinese parsley, and fried shallots plus krupuk or emping as garnish.
The broth should be flavoured with fried shallots, coriander, and ginger.
Plus kemiri nuts, lemon grass, galangal, and dried shrimp.
Noodles optional, for a version of Mie Soto.
Nasi goreng (fried rice) or bami goreng (fried noodles) are also kind of essential, but they really aren't that necessary. Excellent saté, preferable both chicken and lamb, plus petjil, and two or three home-made sambal.
Rice, cucumber chunks, chilled squiggle drinks.
Good strong coffee, either iced or hot.
Korma, kalio, gulai, rawon.
And NO music!
The last Indonesian restaurant at which I ate had karaoke videos. Really, popular music is mostly pig-bollocks in every culture, and sappy emotional ballads in Indonesian are probably the ultimate nightmare.
Either that or meaningful gamelan music.
One other thing: most "ethnic" menus abound in clumsy spelling errors. Gentlemen, this does NOT add to the charm of your place, but rather severely detracts from it.
==========================================================================
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,...
