THESE ARE THE LIMITATIONS

This blogger spent most of yesterday being peevish. This blogger is determined to be nice to people today, all sweetness and light.
Perhaps this blogger should not leave the house.
The strain might prematurely age him.
Or spark another world war.


Let's face it, I spend so much effort on being courteous and informative to people at work (and putting up with cigar-smoking Trumpites and their inane repetitive sports and politics related rantings) that I really have very few fudges left to give. I must conserve them. Those fudges.

I could list all the types of people with whom I have grown fed-up over the years, but that, too, would be repetitive ranting. And you, dear eccentric person reading this, might get bored, and certainly find it dreary.



I like animals. Provided that they are not too large. Unlike my apartment mate, who voices for the stuffed creatures we share, I get along well with live ones, of which there are probably many more in my life than in hers, although for all I know she may associate with whole flocks of riotously personable wild beasts now that she's split with her lover.
I seriously doubt that he liked animals.
Her teddy bear hated him.


The teddy bear and I have a relationship based on mutual respect. She's my apartment mate's oldest friend in the world, and frequently the voice of sanity and reason in this household. And she seems to think that I am, for the most part, a fairly decent chap.


Other than going over to Chinatown for some noodles later, I should spend most of the day with the fuzzy critters, in between going outside for walkies smoking my pipe.

And lots of tea; several of the fuzzies like tea.

They'll be wired when she returns home.

Not my problem. I treat them well.

Rambunctious caffeine freaks.



You know, I wasn't expecting to hit grumpy middle age so soon.
I was hoping to stay thirty for several more years!

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ANCIENT GEEZER STUMBLING AROUND IN THE DARKNESS

Yesterday evening while having a bite to eat at a joint in North Beach, three attractive young ladies were speaking Mandarin at the next table. And while I considered asking them where they were from (你們三個小姐從哪裡來？'ni men san ge hsiao-chieh tsong na-li lai'), I realized that firstly this could create false impressions, and secondly that whatever conversation might ensue would be quite pointless. The age, gender, and cultural differences were major barriers.

Because, after all, I am not an attractive Mandarin speaker.

As I am sure you've already guessed.


Honestly, I wouldn't have been likely to talk with them for any length of time beyond showing off my very minor linguistic skill.
Nor they with me.
I cannot conceive of any shared interests, and I am quite sure that a boring middle-aged white dude speaking worse than mediocre Mandarin is something they have already encountered.

So I listened in for a while.
Sort of, half interested.
Yeah, okay. Pretty.


Half my age. At most. If even that.


There is almost nothing that makes one feel like a creaky old relic than nice young people with whom one has absolutely nothing at all in common.
It's happening too often nowadays.




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FIFTH PLACE; I CAN LET MYSELF OUT

There is something delightful about having a local watering hole, especially after a long day at work. But this neighborhood is a wasteland. I stopped going to one place because of the behaviour of some of the regulars. I don't go to another for the same reason. Won't ever go a third because it's a zoo, and every time I walk by a fourth bar it looks like the lizard aliens are having a mating frenzy in there. Meat racks, pick-up joints, sports bars, or places where expensive techno-yuppies drink wine.

That leaves a fifth place.

A friend wrote "lighten up, people are just trying to unwind and have an enjoyable evening". Which is why I shall not be going there for a while.
I have ditched that dive three times over the years, and I think I should do so once more, for much longer this time. Because, after all, I am a frightful cheapskate, besides being old, arthritic, and white. As well as keenly desirous of having an enjoyable evening, while unwinding.
Which can easily be done by myself.

And, if you think about it, there is something quite insane about going to a karaoke bar when I don't sing, hate karaoke, and dislike noise, and then leaving the drink I bought untended while I spend most of the time alone outside smoking my pipe.

However, the bar is upstairs, and the downstairs portico is convenient because it puts distance between me and caterwauling egomaniacs.

Wandering around Nob Hill with a pipe on my own makes more sense.
It will be quieter, especially when it rains.
And it's also more 'social', too.
Better company.


"People are just trying to unwind and have an enjoyable evening"


Clearly that's not my reason for going there.

I'm rather an idiot at times. I started frequenting the place again, after a long hiatus, several months ago. I like three people who work there, and a few regulars. But most of the customers are too arrogant and pissy to even say 'hi', and some evenings there is a stand-offish crowd at one end of the bar who actively dislike me, so I've avoided the place on those days.

[Mostly Sundays; sports fishermen night.]

I think those people are now dominant. The last few times I went were exercises in solitude. Very loud unpleasant solitude. Perhaps because someone like me should not unwind and have an enjoyable evening.

[That seems to be a consensus.]




As a social experience the place is a disaster.

Too much Frank Sinatra, not enough Bing Crosby.


I'll miss some of those people. But they probably won't miss me.
I'm not social, and I don't sing.





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IN TOUCH WITH MY INNER SALT OF THE EARTH

For over a year now, the city has been digging up a major thoroughfare in a massive beautification project that will improve all our lives, vastly upgrade public transit, and speed the coming of the messiah. As well as give us all good karma, wean us off gluten and meat, and clear up our complexions.

They've torn up Van Ness Avenue, and chopped down most of the lovely trees which used to line the street. And, as is to be expected, costs are spiralling, deadlines are being pushed back.
And transit is a disaster.

The stop where I wait for the bus that takes me north to "entitled snothead central" (Marin County) is there. And there is a gym with a whole bunch of buff-looking urban professionals there. They are very serious folks.
Who, evidently, do not like the horrid odour of cigars.
One of which I enjoy while awaiting transport.
More so because it triggers people.
Poor wussies in sweats.


Mmmm, this Nicaraguan robusto is fine!
Such aroma and sabor!
Jeez!


Working men lay pipes, shift large machinery, and dig.

For them, I raise my voice in cheerful song!


First stanza:
On Monday morning John gets up, what's he doing today?
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
All the life-long day!

Second stanza:
On Tuesday morning John gets up, what's he doing today?
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
All the life-long day!

Third stanza:
On Wednesday morning John gets up, what's he doing today?
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
All the life-long day!

Fourth stanza:
On Thursday morning John gets up, what's he doing today?
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
All the life-long day!

Fifth stanza:
On Friday morning John gets up, what's he doing today?
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
He's digging a hole and digging a hole,
And filling a hole and filling a hole;
All the life-long day!


Men who wear safety vests (bright orange and yellow) assuredly like music. It encourages them in their labour, and puts a smile on their faces.

I am a joy to have around.




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THE CONTEMPLATIVE TYPES

The problem with the pipe club, as everyone will acknowledge, is that the members are mostly middle-aged men with a certain gravitas, instead of bright sprightly young things at college, who are female. Or attractive post-graduates fighting male dominance in their field.
There are hardly any of those.
None, actually.

The image of a slim tweedy girl with an elegant briar disquisitioning brightly over sherry and a bowl of mellow Virginia leaf is a chimera.
If you expected to find her and her kin at the monthly meeting of the pipe club, sadly you will be disappointed.

There was something that looked like sherry, which I did not sample, so it may have been a distillate from Islay or Speyside. And most members are clean-shaven. So from a distance they might have fooled you.

Two kinds of salami.
And hummus.


One member was in Austin, Texas, and another was in Boston, in the attic.
The first only temporarily, the second near-permanently.

One of the members bought a tin of something ancient.
It smelled rather wonderful. Well-aged.
I hope he brings it by.


On Tuesday and Wednesday I shall be smoking by myself.
Recovering from the whirling and tumult.

TOBACCO INDEX


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A CREATURE OF DAYLIGHT

At an hour when decent people are asleep, I stood before the bathroom mirror posing. Eh, the old dude still got it! Of course it helped that I had spent the while before in a place with people who were intoxicated.
Young. Hormonal. Over-stimulated. And just ... so. Precisely.
My arthritis would kick in, and I was hesitant.
I did not wish to leap into the dark.


It is, always, better to demur.


Three lovely young ladies had, in that badly lit environment, introduced themselves. And according to the bartender, two other fine female persons wished to buy me a drink, both of which I turned down.


I'm sorry, I am not what the doctor ordered.
I'm antique, and quite unsuitable!


Years ago, Savage Kitten was 'hesitant'. And I, in a sudden fit of wisdom, had applied myself to pursuit. It was the wisest thing that I could do, and even though we are no longer a couple I have no reason for regret.


That, more than anything else, determines the future.
You should act according to your standards.
And those of the people you respect.


It must be my recent haircut.
It makes me look good.

Well dang.




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CANTONESE PECULIARITY

There are times when the Chinese are entirely daft, damned well baffling. Well, actually, that would be the Toishanese, from near Canton. Cantonese people. I don't know about Mandarin-speakers, as I seldom associate with them, and the Shanghainese think in blithering neutralities.
Shan't even mention the Hokiens and the Hakka.
Cantonese people have a gift for grand operatic behaviours, all round weirdness, and a tendency toward complexity.

For example, an outraged rhetorical question from the apartment mate: "what kind of idiot brings a zither to a hunting party?"

This was not pursuant anything we had previously discussed, nor did I have a clue what she was on about. It was how she greeted me upon my return from Marin today. The question came out of the middle of nothing.


"What kind of idiot brings a zither to a hunting party?"


Umm, I should know the explanation for such a thing? Does it concern me?

Apparently she had been watching a movie during the afternoon.
Which featured an entirely Caucasian cast.
I am a white person.


In my defense, I must mention that I am not German, and seldom think in that language. So I have no idea what kind of idiot brings a zither to a hunting party. Evenso it was an enjoyable movie.
Despite the ridiculous singing.
She says.

That's all the information I have. It took patience and guile to gather this much. And the conversation was fractured. I am Caucasian, ergo I know about zithers, and something about that is my fault.
The German word for 'zither' is 'zither'.
In case you were wondering.



你問我? 我點知啦吓?

The same berserk "logic" shaped the discussion of a party of Toishanese gentlemen at the table near me yesterday afternoon. Which was peppered with "lo mo" and "ma ge haai", as well as "hiu", that being the Toishanese pronunciation of the copulative verb. I knew something was up when the waitress was abstracted, so much so that she brought me the wrong dish.
I had asked for 涼瓜排骨飯 ('leung gwaa paai gwat faan'), but what ended up being served to me was 茄子班球飯 ('ke ji paan kau faan').
No matter. I was too intent on listening to object.
As indeed so was she.

As conversations go, it was a trainwreck. Or a traffic accident involving clown cars. Rabid clowns. Loud. Lyrical. The waitress undoubtedly understood every word, as Toishanese is her native language.
I barely got the gist of it, but my meal was excellent.
Dinner plus a floor show.
Can't beat that.


I do rather wish I had gotten the right food, though, because I was looking forward to bitter melon and spare ribs over rice.
Instead of eggplant and fish.



AFTER WORD

As I mentioned, I am not German. Nor am I Cantonese, and most definitely not Toishanese. I am Dutch (Dutch American), and I look like I should have all the answers. That is all.




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THEIR EASILY BRUISED EGOS

An acquaintance asserted that seeing certain interracial couples made him angry. Not all such, just Asian women with Caucasian men. Upon hearing that I gleefully told him that it amused me immensely. Others have already argued that he has a double standard, as he admits that Asian men with beautiful white women are quite fine by him, the more the merrier!
He gets a kick out of big black men dating white chicks too.

He is an ethnic Chinese dude from the Philippines.
And he may have a chip on his shoulder.
Besides being single and geeky.
Kinda froggish.


Gross generalization: many people (especially men) from the Philippines seem to have similar chips. Their national diversity is exemplified by the peculiarities of said chips. Flip chippity takes varied forms.
But his particular ire is more narrowly Chinese.
An 'Angry Asian Man' thing.
Poor bugger.


As a single man, I suppose I should feel similar anger whenever I see couples, of any age range, ethnic derivation, and gender break-down.
Especially happy couples who are well-matched and likable.
But I don't, that isn't my character flaw.
And life is too short for that.


The key difference is that I am not a geeky froggish Asian man, angry that society does not appreciate me like my mom and my aunties do, nor poorly socialized due to being the precious only son of a family where the older generation all speak something other than English.

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STINKY OLD GUYS AND DUBIOUS MUSICAL TASTES

Because this is San Francisco, the question "what are you smoking in that pipe?" should not be answered in any great detail. If, for instance, I were to respond "a variegated mixture of aged Virginias with a touch of Perique, manufactured by Orlik for Kohlhase & Kopp under the brand name of a fine old English company now sadly zombified by British American Tobacco, and soon to be no longer available", you would respond "oh that's nice" and later remark to your companion that you had no clue what the old fart was pissing on about, you were hoping for a hit of marijuana.
And you might never even speak to me again.
By itself that's no very great loss.
But I'm not an old fart.


"What are you smoking?"

"Tobacco, kid, tobacco."


On a rainy night like to tonight you would see me downstairs from a fine establishment enjoying the last smoke of the day, while younger people avail themselves of the karaoke to belt out the classics.
Or white-boy rap.

Soon, baby. I just had dinner. When I finish my coffee I'm heading out.

I am rather old-school. Instead of ruining my life and rotting my brain with weed and popular music, I shall lurk quietly in the portico with my pipe, watching the weather. Peaceful post working day relaxation.

Sporadic other smokers will pass by, enjoying a last puff before bed.


As well as the odd potsmoking twenty-something dingo.



WEEPING NEAR KARAOKE JOINTS

Please just pretend that I am a wild animal, endangered and dangerous.
If you find tobacco oppressive, and offensive to you and your enlightened world view, don't bother telling me, precious. Should I react at all, it will be only to take joy in your pain, and see if I can make it worse.

Don't irritate the vicious brute, sweetie.
He's rabid, and he'll bite you.

Go ahead and sing.
And shut up.

TOBACCO INDEX


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THE PROSPECT OF PORK

Some evil bastard, probably employed by the city, has littered Spofford Alley with rat traps. Last night when I passed by there were already many victims, several furry corpses, with their little necks broken. I fear that the small colony of lovable white rodents that was living there, near the now empty ghost paper and incense shop, may have been extinguished.

Over many months I had come to know them.
I felt that a bond existed.
It is very sad.

They've also been laying concrete, and the boondoggle beautification project which turned that passage way into a little slice of third world hell may finally be drawing to a close, with typical municipal efficiency.
A miracle in grey concrete! Several months beyond the planned completion date, and after driving many neighborhood enterprises into bankruptcy.
It will be fabulous, and all the tourists will love it.
And, in the end, that's what matters.



The bookseller and I ended up at the usual place, where the owner was much more drunk and belligerent than usual. It's a tradition of many years, which is now far less fun than it was before management of that bar discovered tequila. A birthday celebration was in progress.

There was an enormous roast pig there, plus some kind of noodle dish.

We did not have any. The bookseller abstained because of growing regrets over a donut he had eaten earlier -- lets call that a digestive angst damned well bordering on existential despair -- and I because I have doubts about the healthgiving properties of pork left out at room temperature for half a day, and pawed over by random people.

Pork is a very great good. Under the right circumstances.

In the New Guinea highlands it is often the cause of significant gastric distress, due to handling issues, all the ritual obligations of a big feed involving several dozen people, and haphazard culinary practices.
Plus a lack of clean running water, and flies.



豬肉

In all honesty, while I like roast pork (燒肉 'siu yiuk'), I am much more fond of fatty slabs of pork belly stewed with salted brassica (which I have described in great detail here: mui choi kau yiuk).

It is much less tribal, more civilized.

If I don't have it for lunch today -- at one of my favourite cheap lunch counters where it's on the steamtable as part of the "three dishes and soup" deal (三餸一湯 'saam song yat tong'; rice is naturally included), I may end up having roast pork and fuzzy melon over rice (燒肉節瓜飯 'siu yiuk jit gwaa faan') at another joint. Which I had last week also.

But pork must be part of the programme.
I eat suburban tomorrow.
Ick poo.




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SUCH VERY GOOD NEWS

In an article about Amsterdam one thing stood out like a sore thumb; the gross similarity between China, Saudi Arabia, and the United States.

Explanation: The highest rates of obesity are shown in red, followed by orange and yellow. Green and blue means fewer than 5% of the young population is obese.

[Source: NCD risk factor collaboration: rates of obesity, via BBC.]


There are, in fact, TWO take-away conclusions that jump out immediately when examining these maps.


CONCLUSION ONE
These three countries are awash in delicious snacks, and eating bacon-cheddar flavoured nibbly bits (or shrimpy crispy doodles) is almost a national sport. With or without chocolate and pickled Jalapeño.
Crispity-crunchity, munchity, burp. Oh jayz.


CONCLUSION TWO
You should date a Dutchman.



I am Dutch.




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WHERE IS THE BLOOD?

Someone -- an optimist -- tried posting unsolicited medical advice in the comment field set aside for personal messages (helpfully designated here-under as "letterbox"). Naturally I did not approve the comment for publication. Despite the large number of my readers who may be diseased, or mentally and physically embarrassing, I judged it not in the general interest.

Still. Rhetorical question. I have to ask.


Are you bleeding from an orifice?


Because if you are, you may have Marburg. Or Hanta Fever. Or something else which renders you problematic in public, a right mess, and may contribute to your anger issues.

Personally, I do not know anyone who bleeds from their orifices.
What with not being a dentist or an orificialist.


Are YOU bleeding from any orifices?!?


There are several people of various types that I know.
I have not asked them this question.
Probably won't do so.

Safety first.

Years ago an acquaintance was insanely worried that Obama would get us all killed by letting in travellers from West-Africa. At that time I told him that orificial bleeding might be a sign. I forgot to mention oral surgery.

I hope you are not bleeding.
Please let me know.




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THE FRENCH ONIONS

Quite likely the prize for most ridiculous military march goes to the French, a nation with a quirky sense of humour. Herewith the famous 'Song Of The Onion', with a traduction.

LA CHANSON DE L'OIGNON

J'aime l'oignon frit à l'huile,
J'aime l'oignon car il est bon!
J'aime l'oignon frit à l'huile,
J'aime l'oignon, j'aime l'oignon!

Au pas, camarades! Au pas, camarades!
Au pas, au pas, au pas!
Au pas, camarades! Au pas, camarades!
Au pas, au pas, au pas!

Translation:

I like onion fried in oil,
I like onion because it is good!
I like onion fried in oil,
I like onion, I like onion!

In step, comrades! In step, comrades!
In step, in step, in step!
In step, comrades! In step, comrades!
In step, in step, in step!


It continues, if one wishes to sing further about onions, as follows:

Un seul oignon frit à l'huile,
Un seul oignon nous change en lion;
Un seul oignon frit à l'huile,
Un seul oignon un seul oignon.

[Refrain]

Mais pas d'oignons aux Autrichiens,
Non pas d'oignons à tous ces chiens;
Mais pas d'oignons aux Autrichiens,
Non pas d'oignons, non pas d'oignons.

[Refrain]

Aimons l'oignon frit à l'huile,
Aimons l'oignon car il est bon;
Aimons l'oignon frit à l'huile,
Aimons l'oignon, aimons l'oignon.

Translation:

A single onion fried in oil,
A single onion changes us into lions;
A single onion fried in oil,
One onion, one onion.

[Refrain]

But no onions to the Austrians,
No onions to all these dogs;
But no onions to the Austrians,
None of the onions, none of the onions.

[Refrain]

Let us love onions fried in oil,
Let's love the onion because it is good;
Let us love onion fried in oil,
Love the onion, love the onion.


And naturally one does wish to sing further about onions.

If one is French.



The French language has a rich poetic tradition.





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A DIET RICH IN ANIMAL PROTEIN

His psychoanalyst once said that he was a bit of an idiot. Unprofessional, of course, but a fairly accurate assessment. As others would have agreed. Until well into his adult years he had believed that his mother was a virgin. In his defense, she had been unmarried at the time, and somehow he hadn't connected any of the dots. But she was, after all, a rabbit.
Rabbits usually ignore social niceties like matrimony, divorce, and the whole dating or adultery scene.

He couldn't explain the egg thing either. Doctor Schmidt theorized that the compulsion to hide eggs was tied to his peculiar sexuality, and that painting them in startling colours was subconsciously an attempt to be found out.
But for two thousand years he hid the eggs.
And remained totally celibate.

Which, for rabbits, is unnatural. Of course, painting eggs is too. But he loved eggs. So elegant, so perfectly shaped, so ... ovoid. Say it slowly: "ooh void". Derived from 'ova', 'ovum'. Oh-voooooom! It even made the mouth egg-shaped when you voiced it.

During more than twenty centuries he had been on a crusade to convince the world of egg-perfection. Nature's most perfect food. Not only aesthetically pleasing, also delicious.

For most of that time no one had known about cholesterol. A minor matter, he was sure, but the medical profession had blown it all out of proportion.


Doctor Schmidt said that the eggs symbolized penises, but how very like a psychoanalyst to see reproductive organs in everything!
Schmidt clearly had problems himself.



For over fifty years he and Schmidt had fought twice a week, in the office and elsewhere. They were almost like an old married couple.
Perhaps some of the immortality had rubbed of.
But he looked ancient and leathery.



Schmidt's mother had, ages ago, angrily demanded that her son should stop seeing that boring neurotic rabbit. But she was dead now, and every week her son still had dinner with his bunny. Eggs. Omelets. Deviled. Scrambled. Curried. Snippets over a plate of asparagus.
Gehakte eier salat. Fried. Egg-bacon sandwich.
Sliced with herring and beets. Plain with a dab of mayonnaise.
Gently poached. Quiche. Shakshouka.




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THE CELEBRATORY EGG

The disconnected man in the modern era reaches for the company of like-minded though far away people as much as if not more than back in the seventies he did for LSD or subversive literature. Although on a Saturday evening in San Francisco, the internet is nearly empty. Everybody is out getting blotto on nasty-ass fruit-flavoured vodka ('Svedka'), committing rambunctious unsafe sex with the neighbors, or celebrating passover.
Which started yesterday, and continues for another week.
The second seder is tonight.

But enough of that. I am not pesachdik.
Today's lunch proved that well.
Carnitas burrito.

There is no such thing as a kosher le pesach carnitas burrito con everything, and it was as good a celebration as I've had in five years.
Same goes for any damned holiday in any damned calendar.
I'm just not a friendly and huggable quantity.
Socially, I am Doberman.

Not the friendly Doberman next door you used to play with as a kid, more like the savage snarling Doberman with trust issues that belongs to the retired cop two streets over. The one who eats stray children.
The beast voted most likely to develop rabies.
Yes, that Doberman.


AND MORE ...

All day long people have been asking what my plans are for Easter. Rather than explaining in great grumbling pissy detail that I have no faith left, do not believe in the resurrection, and have no family or children with whom to celebrate bunnies, I have politely stated that I have no agenda.
And will probably just enjoy a quiet and sunny day off.

Food, and smoking my pipe, in Chinatown.

Oh, plus the internet, of course.

No eggs. At all.



The internet exists for only three things: cute kitten pictures, pornography, and Hungarians.


Here's a seasonally appropriate kitten picture:

I was smoking outside earlier. And it got cold.
That's why I'm a little grouchy.




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A BROMIDE FOR THE SOUL

"As grim wet dawn broke over the salt flats, Robert became aware of his surroundings. And was cognizant that last nights dinner was, possibly, still alive. He had masticated firmly and decisively, and the hot sauce should have taken care of any further problems, but, never the less, it lived."

"It had been a dark and stormy night."


Actually, I had a quiet evening yesterday. I took a nap which lasted till about seven thirty this morning, despite intending to have coffee and a last smoke. And the nearest salt flats are in Marin, nowhere near my apartment.
I am just imagining some of the cigar smokers I know.
Their lives are sometimes strange.


"He remembered the writhing on the wall."

"It was a large and thick wall, with a broad walking space on top, and parapets. It circled the estate, and the captain of industry that owned it frequently arranged orgies on top, velvetly roping off the machine gun emplacements so that the teenage girls would not spontaneously murder the peasants after all the sugary umbrella cocktails."

"They writhed in sprightly dance; a frenzy."

"Grashoppers. And cherry bourbon."


One of the sanest people yesterday was a school teacher who enjoys a cigar away the wife and teenage boys in his charge. A friendly and very rational man, unlike many of the other cigar smokers (for which see previous essay underneath), whose company he does not seek.
We discussed literature while he lit his cheroot, before he went back out onto the patio to continue reading.
He's still on the novel from last week.
It's a bit of a slog.


BOB HONEY: MASTURBATORY GLEE

One book, which I am determined to acquire second hand (NOT new!) is 'Bob Honey Who Just Do Stuff', by noted auteur Sean Penn, famous for marrying Madonna.

Everyone who has been exposed to it already waxes lyrical. To quote from a recent review: "(it is) repellent on one level, but stupid on so many others".
And: "Penn doesn’t just swing and miss with his ambitious vocabulary; he swings and cracks a hole in reality as we know it, leaving us all unsure of the concept of a good sentence, how a novel should be structured and generally what makes sense any more. Words are not just misused, they are misplaced, to the point that Penn’s prose is more reminiscent of bot than man" (source: Sian Cain, in The Guardian, March 29).

It sounds epic.

'Surreptitious soupçon?' What does that even mean?


"Never one for psychosexual infantilism or paedophilic fantasy, after their sex he said, ‘Good vagina.
Maybe more Vietnam.’"

[Sean Penn, somewhere in his opus, quoted by Sian Cain.]


My first cigar of the day is burning lopsidedly, and keeps going out while writing this. I need to touch it up often with the lighter to correct that.
Sean Penn should have dealt similarly with his manuscript.
I shall enjoy every rotten moment reading it.
When I finally possess a copy.
Spizzerinctious.


It's lonely out in the salt flats, gringo.




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SOME MEN ARE PARAGONS

After this evening, I shall encourage tinfoil hat man to go back there and rave. Even when he's off his meds, he is more civilized than those boys.
I would even welcome Little White Nipple Dude back from his vacation with Ma and Pa. Gibber on, little nutball, gibber on.

The question posed to me when I ventured back there was: "If you were at a bar on Polk Street, and Stormy Daniels flopped a breast onto your arm and offered to have sex with you, would you take her back to your place?"

Gentlemen, what on earth goes on in those filthy heads of yours?
It wasn't just me. Others got asked that question too.


One victim asked: "left or right breast?"



Which, when you think about it, is a less valid query than it initially seems.
And that man might be worth keeping an eye on in the future.




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THAT 'OH SHOOT, I'M OLD' MOMENT

Last night at the karaoke bar, several people hesitantly acknowledged that old age is creeping up on them. Falteringly, half-assedly, denialistically.
The "gotta go" crowd. Work tomorrow, act normal and all that.
I do not need to acknowledge that at effing all.
What with being grouchy and stiff.
A throbbing right leg.


"Okay, bitches! I am antique, I smell bad, and the pipe is part of me. Powder, medicated unguents, old-school pipe tobacco. Where ever I go I bring the odeur of a lower-class British living room with grampus in his chair smoking soggy shreds in his battered briar. Mildew! We survived the war!"


Seriously. My leg hurts. And cheap Scotch is a blessing. My apartment mate is a small Cantonese female person, and does not drink alcohol, so she will never understand that. She's also nearly a decade younger than I am, and her cholesterol level is perfect. After every check-up she celebrates with lobster and bacon, melted butter, mayo, and rich creamy sauces.

She is convinced that Scotch is nasty stuff, for deviants only.
She doesn't smoke either. No pipe, no cigar.
That isn't normal.




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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================