Okay, this isn't going to work ..... She (my apartment mate) is watching Doctor Pimple Popper and cysts on television, and I am no longer even thinking of dinner. Which is for the best, as I have run out of the frozen dumplings. Perhaps a bite later. Something fried, at a nearby eatery where they have sports on teevee, and would not even think of putting the diseased skin on the tube.
I could go through the entire rest of my life, or at least another decade or longer, without ever seeing the ins and outs of cysts again.
According to Wikipedia there are a huge number of cysts. Nothing in that article needs to be quoted here. The list of cysts has clickable links coming out of the wazzoo, and not single one tempts me.
Normally I love clickable links.
Not this time.
Doctor Jim will probably drop by my work when I go back, and just so I can gross out some of the cigar smokers by discussing such matters with him, I'll need to bone up on cysts. I'll do that tomorrow, when I have no appetite. By the time my apartment mate finally gets over this fascination with puss, bumps, nodules, fluid filled sacs, and similar disgusting sh*t, I should be quite the expert.
File this under "things that can go wrong with your skin". I fervently hope that she does not develop a fascination with collapsed veins, meth sores, injection abscesses, or other dermiod nastiness. Or, if she does, that she limit her teevee time to hours when I am neither hungry nor home. If she wants to spend all day Saturday watching skin-crawling video, that's quite fine with me.
Provided she doesn't tell me all about it afterward.
She's sometimes Asperger enough for two people.
So that may be too much to hope for.
AFTER THOUGHT
It's more than just Aspergers. Or queer scientific curiosity. It's probably also a female thing. An obsession with errm, beautification, skin, appearances, and solving what some women consider serious issues, but which most men don't even notice.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, August 13, 2018
Sunday, August 12, 2018
LINGERING PLUM FRAGRANCE
When I woke up it was with an echo of Anita Mui (梅艷芳 'mui yim fong') in my mind's ear, a song from her hit movie 'Rouge'. No, I shall not post a youtube, because the protectors of copyrights keep shutting down user accounts, and anything embedded today might well be gone tomorrow.
The song floats under the same name as the movie: 胭脂扣 ('yin ji kau').
Instead, I'll opportunistically post the lyrics.
胭脂扣 - 梅艷芳
誓言幻作煙雲字
費盡千般心思
情象火灼般熱
怎燒一生一世
延續不容易
負情是你的名字
錯付千般相思
情像水向東逝去
痴心枉傾注
願那天未曾遇
只盼相依
那管見盡遺憾世事
漸老芳華
愛火未減人面變異
祈求在那天重遇
訴盡千般相思
祈望不再辜負我
痴心的關注
人被愛留住
問哪天會重遇
The movie (also entitled 胭脂扣) is well worth seeing more than once. Both Anita Mui, who plays the courtesan, and Leslie Cheung (張國榮 'jeung kwok wing'), her lover, are no longer among the living.
But their memory lives on.
It really was a golden age of cinema.
This and other songs can easily be found on the internet, as well as movie clips, and Canto-pop by various artists. Please do so.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The song floats under the same name as the movie: 胭脂扣 ('yin ji kau').
Instead, I'll opportunistically post the lyrics.
胭脂扣 - 梅艷芳
誓言幻作煙雲字
費盡千般心思
情象火灼般熱
怎燒一生一世
延續不容易
負情是你的名字
錯付千般相思
情像水向東逝去
痴心枉傾注
願那天未曾遇
只盼相依
那管見盡遺憾世事
漸老芳華
愛火未減人面變異
祈求在那天重遇
訴盡千般相思
祈望不再辜負我
痴心的關注
人被愛留住
問哪天會重遇
The movie (also entitled 胭脂扣) is well worth seeing more than once. Both Anita Mui, who plays the courtesan, and Leslie Cheung (張國榮 'jeung kwok wing'), her lover, are no longer among the living.
But their memory lives on.
It really was a golden age of cinema.
This and other songs can easily be found on the internet, as well as movie clips, and Canto-pop by various artists. Please do so.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, August 11, 2018
DAVE EATS KITTENS!
A business person with access to automatic calling is keen to get my patronage. Several times I have received his cheerful pre-recorded message. "Hi, this is Dave from your local air-duct cleaning service....."
Dave, kindly go fly a kite. We don't have air.
That's for rich peoples.
We can't afford air-ducts. We're relying on cutaneous gas exchange instead.
I'm in the middle of a procedure, and my space ship just landed.
So glad you called, we're burning body parts!
We breathe methane here.
Apparently Dave is a very common name for air duct doctors. There are very many Daves who can go piss up a rope.
I'm not at all sure this building has air ducts. It's kinda old, built during the first half of the last century, when people still relied on windows for ventilation. Every room here has at least one window.
They're very nice.
"Hi, this is Dave from your local air-duct cleaning service....."
Dave, never call in the evening. If you interrupt my dinner, bad things may happen. Such as my apartment mate, watching frightful surgical procedures on her computer, answering the phone instead. And giving a blow by blow description, involving prongs, forceps, body fluids. She might even have your number, Dave, and make your life hell. She can be vindictive.
I still resent you calling us when I was sitting down to a tasty chicken and potato curry. What the hell were you thinking? Dave's Duct Cleaning will never get my business. You suck, Dave.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Dave, kindly go fly a kite. We don't have air.
That's for rich peoples.
We can't afford air-ducts. We're relying on cutaneous gas exchange instead.
I'm in the middle of a procedure, and my space ship just landed.
So glad you called, we're burning body parts!
We breathe methane here.
Apparently Dave is a very common name for air duct doctors. There are very many Daves who can go piss up a rope.
I'm not at all sure this building has air ducts. It's kinda old, built during the first half of the last century, when people still relied on windows for ventilation. Every room here has at least one window.
They're very nice.
"Hi, this is Dave from your local air-duct cleaning service....."
Dave, never call in the evening. If you interrupt my dinner, bad things may happen. Such as my apartment mate, watching frightful surgical procedures on her computer, answering the phone instead. And giving a blow by blow description, involving prongs, forceps, body fluids. She might even have your number, Dave, and make your life hell. She can be vindictive.
I still resent you calling us when I was sitting down to a tasty chicken and potato curry. What the hell were you thinking? Dave's Duct Cleaning will never get my business. You suck, Dave.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, August 10, 2018
NOTES FROM READING ABOUT THE LIAO
We know that the end of Tang (唐朝 'tong chiu') began with the An Lushan rebellion (安史之亂 'on si ji luen', in which a paranoid sinicised Turkic mutt, possibly Sogdian, who had been a general under the Emperor Xuanzong (玄宗 'yuen jung'), recruited rebels and brigands from both the Khitans and various loathsome Turkic tribes in the north, and marched on Chang'an, proclaiming himself founder of a great new dynasty, Yan (燕朝 'yin chiu').
A dozen years later, with ten millions of the citizenry dead, the spurious emperor of Yan, An Lushan (安祿山 'on lok saan') having been hacked to death by a co-intrigant of his son and heir An Qingxu (安慶緒 'on hing seui'), who was a few years later executed by a family friend and fellow barbarian, Shi Siming (史思明 'si si ming'), and great misery having afflicted a large part of the empire, things finally returned to a semblance normal.
Altogether, it was a rather seedy business, and illustrates why one should never rely on Turks.
Though they do make good stable hands.
Or used to.
The Tang Dynasty itself was partly Turkish. Which explains why they employed so many Sino-Turks and other steppe heathens. The world naturally prefers their successors, the Song (宋朝 'sung chiu').
契丹 KAAI DAAN
["The Cathay Hoojigoo"]
All of this is tangential to this morning's reading about the Liao Dynasty (遼朝 'liu chiu'). Which is what the Khitan empire in Manchuria and Northern China called itself. And I cannot find a translation of huldʒi gur, which looks like it should be pronounced 'hoojigoo'. That caught my eye, as well as a Chinese military term that may be related to Turkish: mashi (馬使), as in 兵馬使 ('bing maa si'), which calls to mind terracotta figurines of horse tenders, stable boys, and cavalry men.
The term breaks down as "army-horse-officiate".
The word huldʒi gur amuses me.
Hoojigoo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A dozen years later, with ten millions of the citizenry dead, the spurious emperor of Yan, An Lushan (安祿山 'on lok saan') having been hacked to death by a co-intrigant of his son and heir An Qingxu (安慶緒 'on hing seui'), who was a few years later executed by a family friend and fellow barbarian, Shi Siming (史思明 'si si ming'), and great misery having afflicted a large part of the empire, things finally returned to a semblance normal.
Altogether, it was a rather seedy business, and illustrates why one should never rely on Turks.
Though they do make good stable hands.
Or used to.
The Tang Dynasty itself was partly Turkish. Which explains why they employed so many Sino-Turks and other steppe heathens. The world naturally prefers their successors, the Song (宋朝 'sung chiu').
契丹 KAAI DAAN
["The Cathay Hoojigoo"]
All of this is tangential to this morning's reading about the Liao Dynasty (遼朝 'liu chiu'). Which is what the Khitan empire in Manchuria and Northern China called itself. And I cannot find a translation of huldʒi gur, which looks like it should be pronounced 'hoojigoo'. That caught my eye, as well as a Chinese military term that may be related to Turkish: mashi (馬使), as in 兵馬使 ('bing maa si'), which calls to mind terracotta figurines of horse tenders, stable boys, and cavalry men.
The term breaks down as "army-horse-officiate".
The word huldʒi gur amuses me.
Hoojigoo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, August 09, 2018
GRADUATING TO SOMETHING BIGGER
Wisely and kindly she decided not to tell me all the details. Still, what she was watching was sufficiently interesting to her that the frequent eruptions from the other side of her computer told me a story.
"Yeah, you have to get out the entire sack."
"Man, those things are gross."
"Way cool!"
She's gone from watching zit extraction videos to boils and cysts.
Which is what I came home to this evening.
Scientific curiosity.
Never stop learning. An inquisitive mind is a wonderful thing to have.
I applaud the eternal search for intellectual stimulation, as well as the acquisition of new knowledge. Yes indeed.
Realistically, though, I'm okay not knowing all the details.
"You know, it's kind of interesting when someone has an extremely large head and very tiny ears; like the head is the size of a basketball and the ears resemble dried apricots."
Sometimes I'm also fine not knowing what goes in her head.
She informs me that when you get into the philtrum area it hurts like hell. She wonders why that is. I do not wonder about these things, because my intellectual curiosity has limits.
With great interest she observes what shows up on her screen. A normal woman would be grossed out, but I could not live with a normal woman.
I rather like that my apartment mate has a hardened stomach, and a hard-headed approach to life, piping & electricity, and disgusting medical sh*t. For one thing it means that her conversation is regularly more interesting, and seldom if ever a dreary monologue about handbags or mascara.
For another thing, if I ever need an operation, I'll have an avid and wide-awake audience of one. Who will tell me all about it afterwards.
I suppose that's a good thing.
A fair witness.
I'm not planning on needing an operation, in case you wondered.
If I ever start dating again, the test will be how "girlfriend" and "apartment mate" get along. If they actually like each other that would be a good sign. Bright, curious, outside the box, and no girlie sh*t.
AFTER WORD
Her vocalizations got worse. "Damn." "Damn!" "DAAAAMN!" "Mothersnot!" "Just heat it a bit, palpitate .... whoah!" "Damn!" "Just a little TLC." "Daaamn!"
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"Yeah, you have to get out the entire sack."
"Man, those things are gross."
"Way cool!"
She's gone from watching zit extraction videos to boils and cysts.
Which is what I came home to this evening.
Scientific curiosity.
Never stop learning. An inquisitive mind is a wonderful thing to have.
I applaud the eternal search for intellectual stimulation, as well as the acquisition of new knowledge. Yes indeed.
Realistically, though, I'm okay not knowing all the details.
"You know, it's kind of interesting when someone has an extremely large head and very tiny ears; like the head is the size of a basketball and the ears resemble dried apricots."
Sometimes I'm also fine not knowing what goes in her head.
She informs me that when you get into the philtrum area it hurts like hell. She wonders why that is. I do not wonder about these things, because my intellectual curiosity has limits.
With great interest she observes what shows up on her screen. A normal woman would be grossed out, but I could not live with a normal woman.
I rather like that my apartment mate has a hardened stomach, and a hard-headed approach to life, piping & electricity, and disgusting medical sh*t. For one thing it means that her conversation is regularly more interesting, and seldom if ever a dreary monologue about handbags or mascara.
For another thing, if I ever need an operation, I'll have an avid and wide-awake audience of one. Who will tell me all about it afterwards.
I suppose that's a good thing.
A fair witness.
I'm not planning on needing an operation, in case you wondered.
If I ever start dating again, the test will be how "girlfriend" and "apartment mate" get along. If they actually like each other that would be a good sign. Bright, curious, outside the box, and no girlie sh*t.
AFTER WORD
Her vocalizations got worse. "Damn." "Damn!" "DAAAAMN!" "Mothersnot!" "Just heat it a bit, palpitate .... whoah!" "Damn!" "Just a little TLC." "Daaamn!"
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DON'T TOUCH IT!
Last night I really had to get out of the house. My apartment mate was watching Doctor Pop-a-zit on youtube, and exclaiming in wonder. And she happily remembered my sebaceous cyst from several years ago. When I told her nix on that, despite it still being "active", because the last time it cost me two hundred dollars at the dermatologist and destroyed a splatter guard, she offered to pay the two hundred dollars, if only .....
Heck, no. Ain't gonna happen.
Keep away from me.
My apartment mate is a good person. She's reliable, trustworthy, honest, and totally Asperger. Which means that her obsessive phase is constantly at one hundred percent. I am sure I will hear much more about amazing advances in zit-popping technology and positive karma from removing minuscule sub-dermatic waste sacs, for many more days to come.
Yeah, no. I do not want to know all that.
Colour me un-interested.
Nauseated.
Asperger people are often entirely clueless about the appropriateness, or inappropriateness, of certain subjects and details. Such as, when I was much younger and in my junior scientist period (teenage years), how seriously cat XXXX (XXXXXXXXXX) resemble XXXXX when the family was enjoying a delicious XXXXXXXXX dinner.
My enthusiasm at that time was NOT infectious.
It took me a while to understand that.
I am small-talk impaired.
Last night I went out and smoked my pipe outside a local establishment where I had some Scotch and water sitting on the counter. A personal mixture of over eighty percent aged pressed red Virginia and three percent, more or less, Perique tobacco. It was totally lovely. An antique fragrance perfumed the night-time air, the fog showed glowing areas in the middle distance, and every light had a nimbus .....
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Heck, no. Ain't gonna happen.
Keep away from me.
My apartment mate is a good person. She's reliable, trustworthy, honest, and totally Asperger. Which means that her obsessive phase is constantly at one hundred percent. I am sure I will hear much more about amazing advances in zit-popping technology and positive karma from removing minuscule sub-dermatic waste sacs, for many more days to come.
Yeah, no. I do not want to know all that.
Colour me un-interested.
Nauseated.
Asperger people are often entirely clueless about the appropriateness, or inappropriateness, of certain subjects and details. Such as, when I was much younger and in my junior scientist period (teenage years), how seriously cat XXXX (XXXXXXXXXX) resemble XXXXX when the family was enjoying a delicious XXXXXXXXX dinner.
My enthusiasm at that time was NOT infectious.
It took me a while to understand that.
I am small-talk impaired.
Last night I went out and smoked my pipe outside a local establishment where I had some Scotch and water sitting on the counter. A personal mixture of over eighty percent aged pressed red Virginia and three percent, more or less, Perique tobacco. It was totally lovely. An antique fragrance perfumed the night-time air, the fog showed glowing areas in the middle distance, and every light had a nimbus .....
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, August 08, 2018
TOFU AND TIN FOIL HATS
During the first cup of coffee today I read about Sarah Jeong, vitamin supplements, essential amino acids, cortisone, Assad's wife's breasts, Qanon, pizza gate, and strange Christian cults (which is all of them, by the way). And it turns out that most hardcore Qanon supporters come from an originally Christian background, engage in role playing games, and fantasize about the kinky stuff.
Which explains why they obsess over child sex rings run by Democrats, Freemasons, and Alex Jones.
Qanonites are, mostly, paranoid gamers living in basements.
Unless they're married. Then it's trailers.
And The White House.
Superhero capes, kneepads, crash helmets.
Please wear them, they save lives.
Likewise tinfoil hats.
I've also been thinking a lot about tofu. Specifically, sautéed beancurd and Cantonese roast pork in a savoury sauce over rice, which will probably be dinner today, right around tea time. And that, you understand, must mean that I am wondering about which pipe to take with me to Chinatown, and what I shall smoke before I leave the house.
The best way to serve tofu is with meat. Contrasting texture and a flavour transfer benefit the substance, which essential fact is lost on Vegans and other dietary eccentrics.
Adding a good chicken or pork bone stock is often splendid.
From the Larousse: "Très employé dans la cuisine végétarienne, le tofu est assez fade et doit donc être préparé avec des épices, des herbes, des aromates ou des légumes pour relever le goût du plat." End cite.
Translation: 'much used in vegetarian "cooking", tofu is utterly bland, and must be jacked-up with spices, herbs, aromatics, and flavourful vegetables to add taste to the dish'.
Well, that's not quite true, but vegetarian cooking is rather appalling, and suffers from ideology-driven imagination, much like the fevered rambling of folks who live in basements, trailer parks, and The White House.
The reason why Trump is god to these people is that he's just like them, but he married a supermodel. That's something most of them just dream about.
Oh yeah, and the angry paranoia. It makes them wet.
Time for more coffee.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which explains why they obsess over child sex rings run by Democrats, Freemasons, and Alex Jones.
Qanonites are, mostly, paranoid gamers living in basements.
Unless they're married. Then it's trailers.
And The White House.
Superhero capes, kneepads, crash helmets.
Please wear them, they save lives.
Likewise tinfoil hats.
I've also been thinking a lot about tofu. Specifically, sautéed beancurd and Cantonese roast pork in a savoury sauce over rice, which will probably be dinner today, right around tea time. And that, you understand, must mean that I am wondering about which pipe to take with me to Chinatown, and what I shall smoke before I leave the house.
The best way to serve tofu is with meat. Contrasting texture and a flavour transfer benefit the substance, which essential fact is lost on Vegans and other dietary eccentrics.
Adding a good chicken or pork bone stock is often splendid.
From the Larousse: "Très employé dans la cuisine végétarienne, le tofu est assez fade et doit donc être préparé avec des épices, des herbes, des aromates ou des légumes pour relever le goût du plat." End cite.
Translation: 'much used in vegetarian "cooking", tofu is utterly bland, and must be jacked-up with spices, herbs, aromatics, and flavourful vegetables to add taste to the dish'.
Well, that's not quite true, but vegetarian cooking is rather appalling, and suffers from ideology-driven imagination, much like the fevered rambling of folks who live in basements, trailer parks, and The White House.
The reason why Trump is god to these people is that he's just like them, but he married a supermodel. That's something most of them just dream about.
Oh yeah, and the angry paranoia. It makes them wet.
Time for more coffee.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
LAUREN CUTSHAW
New item in the idiot file: Ms Lauren Cutshaw, thirty two years old, in South Carolina. Drunk, and filled with something. Dirty blonde. Wheatish.
I hesitate to use the term "white priviledge', because I am convinced that many people don't actually have that .... but if enough crazy dingoes like this keep jumping out of the woodwork, my personal conviction might actually be a manifestation of white privilege.
From the BBC: "Ms Cutshaw was stopped after she drove through a stop sign at 60mph (96km/h) in Bluffton, South Carolina."
"Ms Cutshaw told officers she had perfect grades her whole life, was a cheerleader and sorority girl, had graduated from a "high accredited university" and that her partner was a police officer ... "
Her eyes were bloodshot, she slurred, and there was marijuana in the car.
"I mean, I was celebrating my birthday."
Girl, please shut up. Just keep quiet.
You are showing your ass.
Delta Zeta.
LSU.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I hesitate to use the term "white priviledge', because I am convinced that many people don't actually have that .... but if enough crazy dingoes like this keep jumping out of the woodwork, my personal conviction might actually be a manifestation of white privilege.
From the BBC: "Ms Cutshaw was stopped after she drove through a stop sign at 60mph (96km/h) in Bluffton, South Carolina."
"Ms Cutshaw told officers she had perfect grades her whole life, was a cheerleader and sorority girl, had graduated from a "high accredited university" and that her partner was a police officer ... "
Her eyes were bloodshot, she slurred, and there was marijuana in the car.
"I mean, I was celebrating my birthday."
Girl, please shut up. Just keep quiet.
You are showing your ass.
Delta Zeta.
LSU.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, August 07, 2018
WHEN YOUR COUNTRY CALLS
Our beloved orange-faced crap weasel™ has vociferated again in the direction of Iran. This might count as psychological warfare, except that it's clearly indigestion; a diet of Big Macs and Twinkies at two in the morning wreaks havoc on the internal organs. To alleviate this problem high colonic flushing is recommended, but who knows what that could dislodge?
No one dares come that close.
Not even Ben Carson.
A medical man.
Far be it from me to ignore my duty as a loyal American.
I have written a strongly worded letter.
San Francisco, August 7, 2018.
Dear President Rouhani,
Kindly ignore the frightful noise from Mar-a-Lago. He only speaks for Sarah Huckabee Sanders, AND his tummy hurts. If you want to make him chill, just strike a deal for a golf course OR a casino, to be built mostly with Russian mafia money, and be sure to get a son or a son-in-law involved. It will facilitate things remarkably.
Even a daughter. She's at loose ends right now.
Asmall huge! classy boutique, on-site, selling steaks, wine, and bogus college degrees, would also be a nice touch.
I would also suggest having bagpipe music in the lobby; he loves the Scots, and they love him. So it would be appropriate, and really incredibly sweet (we've got ear plugs if you're interested).
Pipe it in ... excuse the wordplay.
Please give our regards to everyone in Tehran. The national nightmare may be over soon.
Oh, and send water. California is burning, and more importantly, farmers in the Central Valley need it to drench the gays.
Sincerely,
---Governor Jerry Brown
Well of course I signed someone else's name to it.
President Rouhani has never heard of me.
Don't thank me, I'm a giver.
Next up: solving the Cuban situation.
After that, the Middle East.
Soon everyone will be able to sit down and share some Israeli Pizza!
Plus tall glasses of Tapuzina; it's non-alcoholic.
Oh, the joy. So happy.
No haggis. Unless it's topped with bacon, cheese, and special sauce.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No one dares come that close.
Not even Ben Carson.
A medical man.
Far be it from me to ignore my duty as a loyal American.
I have written a strongly worded letter.
San Francisco, August 7, 2018.
Dear President Rouhani,
Kindly ignore the frightful noise from Mar-a-Lago. He only speaks for Sarah Huckabee Sanders, AND his tummy hurts. If you want to make him chill, just strike a deal for a golf course OR a casino, to be built mostly with Russian mafia money, and be sure to get a son or a son-in-law involved. It will facilitate things remarkably.
Even a daughter. She's at loose ends right now.
A
I would also suggest having bagpipe music in the lobby; he loves the Scots, and they love him. So it would be appropriate, and really incredibly sweet (we've got ear plugs if you're interested).
Pipe it in ... excuse the wordplay.
Please give our regards to everyone in Tehran. The national nightmare may be over soon.
Oh, and send water. California is burning, and more importantly, farmers in the Central Valley need it to drench the gays.
Sincerely,
---Governor Jerry Brown
Well of course I signed someone else's name to it.
President Rouhani has never heard of me.
Don't thank me, I'm a giver.
Next up: solving the Cuban situation.
After that, the Middle East.
Soon everyone will be able to sit down and share some Israeli Pizza!
Plus tall glasses of Tapuzina; it's non-alcoholic.
Oh, the joy. So happy.
No haggis. Unless it's topped with bacon, cheese, and special sauce.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE SOFT WET EMBRACE
At three o'clock in the morning on the final day of a work-week it is likely that a rational person will realize that for the last couple of days they have not been entirely sane. Fortunately most of the people I associate with are cool with that. Eric, for instance, was batshit crazy at the same time that Marie was high on life in America (Friday night), which is also when the drunken gentlemen from The House of Pee (not the correct name of that establishment) were screaming and tweaking, Yanni was non-compos mentis (five day bachelor party), Roger was dealing with an exploding pipe near the dish washing machine, and two English-speaking foreigners were discovering that San Francisco has a far wider spectrum of genderish sizes and shapes than they were familiar with in Sweden. Please don't ask about that last item; I didn't want to know that, could have live the rest of my life without ever hearing the details, and was only interested in smoking my pipe outside, freezing my buns off in the purple rain fog.
At my age, buns in the fog are a concept.
And yes, I am NOT old. Dammit.
Statler, Waldorf.
My Friday, only your Tuesday. Tomorrow I may have Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice (焗葡國雞飯). Which will send my cholesterol through the roof, and give me the energy to go up twenty storeys of bamboo scaffolding in a typhoon for another ten hours. Mmm, good. Heart attack on a plate.
I just spent twenty minutes in the kitchen finishing my pipe. Closed door, wide open window, apartment mate who hates tobacco. And a lessening of arterial elasticity, which under the wrong circumstances leads to near-paralysis, profound belly-aching, whining in a cringy fashion, and, if further from the apartment than tonight, a taxi.
I stumble around, kvetching.
The fog up at Larkin and Clay swirls beautifully, silvery billows, glowing and soft-bright. Down at Polk Street, a black gentleman whom I've known for two decades clutches an un-opened wine bottle (good lord, is that Rosé? No one drinks that bocht, it's what you bring to hippie / swinger parties!), and the pot-holed pavement looks "adventurous" in the white metallic haze.
Two shots of Loch Cheapbasterd Scotch. The pipe is now on the table near my chair. I had brought a second pipe, but I had such a good time talking to rational people and a long-haired small dog sitting on the bar that I drank less, and was not outside enough to need it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
At my age, buns in the fog are a concept.
And yes, I am NOT old. Dammit.
Statler, Waldorf.
My Friday, only your Tuesday. Tomorrow I may have Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice (焗葡國雞飯). Which will send my cholesterol through the roof, and give me the energy to go up twenty storeys of bamboo scaffolding in a typhoon for another ten hours. Mmm, good. Heart attack on a plate.
I just spent twenty minutes in the kitchen finishing my pipe. Closed door, wide open window, apartment mate who hates tobacco. And a lessening of arterial elasticity, which under the wrong circumstances leads to near-paralysis, profound belly-aching, whining in a cringy fashion, and, if further from the apartment than tonight, a taxi.
I stumble around, kvetching.
The fog up at Larkin and Clay swirls beautifully, silvery billows, glowing and soft-bright. Down at Polk Street, a black gentleman whom I've known for two decades clutches an un-opened wine bottle (good lord, is that Rosé? No one drinks that bocht, it's what you bring to hippie / swinger parties!), and the pot-holed pavement looks "adventurous" in the white metallic haze.
Two shots of Loch Cheapbasterd Scotch. The pipe is now on the table near my chair. I had brought a second pipe, but I had such a good time talking to rational people and a long-haired small dog sitting on the bar that I drank less, and was not outside enough to need it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, August 06, 2018
TODAY'S GUEST POST: THE PRESIDENT
Donald Trump's tweets often speak for themselves.
Here are two which show that he's "concerned".
California wildfires are being magnified & made so much worse by the bad environmental laws which aren’t allowing massive amount of readily available water to be properly utilized. It is being diverted into the Pacific Ocean. Must also tree clear to stop fire spreading!
— Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) August 5, 2018
Governor Jerry Brown must allow the Free Flow of the vast amounts of water coming from the North and foolishly being diverted into the Pacific Ocean. Can be used for fires, farming and everything else. Think of California with plenty of Water - Nice! Fast Federal govt. approvals.
— Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) August 6, 2018
These are the thoughts of a very stable genius.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Here are two which show that he's "concerned".
California wildfires are being magnified & made so much worse by the bad environmental laws which aren’t allowing massive amount of readily available water to be properly utilized. It is being diverted into the Pacific Ocean. Must also tree clear to stop fire spreading!
— Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) August 5, 2018
Governor Jerry Brown must allow the Free Flow of the vast amounts of water coming from the North and foolishly being diverted into the Pacific Ocean. Can be used for fires, farming and everything else. Think of California with plenty of Water - Nice! Fast Federal govt. approvals.
— Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) August 6, 2018
These are the thoughts of a very stable genius.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, August 05, 2018
LAST SMOKE TIMES FIVE
There are evenings when I wish to enjoy some tobacco. But my apartment mate is a very nice non-smoker, who this year particularly is bothered by allergies and respiratory distress, and consequently the open street beckons. During summer in San Francisco the open street at night can be cold and windy, and I am not as resilient as I once was.
When I was in my twenties, full of piss, and often undressed.
Please don't mentally picture that.
After ten I sometimes head out with a pipe.
Peace and quiet are in order.
Perhaps whisky.
5. THE OTHER NIGHT
They both look like they need a little reaming. I left with a pouch of aged Virginia (smidgeon of Perique), one pipe in my mouth, one extra briar in the right-side coat pocket. Both Petersons, one older than I am. At the bar was a very drunken black man. Whom I know. Possibly despondent because his cousin had passed away recently, whom I also knew. He has my complete sympathy, I likewise regret the passing of a brilliant man who had wit, compassion, and talent. Both men moved to California long ago.
But I am not capable of being very human.
So I said some kind words.....
And went outside.
Several potheads a little distance away were mumbling indistinctly, three people nearby were talking about first memories. The woman from New Zealand was recalling when she was four, and the wall in a house her family had moved into was being taken down. Among my earliest memories is wanting a band-aid because Tobias (my older brother) had one, my dad painting his initials (W.E.M.) on a moving crate while I could not escape (child-proof barrier), and a storm somewhere in the North Sea near Norway. Several memorable moments after that, there was the time I got into trouble at grammar school because I mapped out the human urinary system.
Very symmetrical, with mirrored images.
In second grade.
One man holding his privates wandered past. Then another doing the same. Followed ten minutes later by a small scholarly woman with spectacles and a neat bouncy pony tail. Who probably had nothing to do with the men clutching their testicles. Testicles are very reassuring.
By then I was having my second Scotch.
And enjoying the second bowl.
We all miss Lovalle.
He was a good man.
When I got home I fixed myself another Scotch and water. It was too early to go to bed. Not even twelve.
4. A COUPLE OF DAYS AGO
Bitter cold. The end of July is proving itself as lovable as a hagfish. I had to go back inside for an extra sweater over the one I was wearing, and relight my pipe once I got out again.
This blend will absolutely require another batch: approximately three percent Perique, mostly aged red. Delightful, once it settled down. Mixing with the Louisiana leaf requires a week for everything to stabilize.
It may trigger passers-by. But there are very few of them after midnight, and either they are plugged-up, or potted. Some are both. A driver for Uber cruises slowly past, going the wrong direction on a one-way street.
Which is not confidence-inspiring.
Two people walking, animatedly in conversation. Woman: "I nearly killed myself because she wouldn't have sex with me". Now that right there is a lousy concept, and utterly ridiculous! If I killed myself because of all the people who haven't had sex with me, I'd be a right mess now.
My teenage years would have been horrid.
But you, okay then.
A delicate whisp trails over the rim, and slowly dissipates, leaving a ghost of a fragrance. Despite not being able to feel my toes, coming out was worth it. Who needs toes anyway? Hah, let them freeze.
I hope the tobacco nazis rot indoors.
3. TUESDAY
Spofford Alley is newly paved, very clean looking, and nearly rat-free. Which is sad. There had been a lively colony living there when it was still torn-up and filled with holes in the ground. It was quite impassible for garbage trucks and trash bins, and the human residents would drag their sacks to either end. Which, of course, sustained the rats.
I rather like the new surface of Spofford. Regular paving bricks, grey, rows. The weird short pillars placed along the sides to prevent parking don't really work for me. I suspect the residents are somewhat disdainful too. The rats are gone, and do not care. Except for one lively little fellow.
Later that evening I stepped out of a bar, and a block later decided I needed a taxi. No, I wasn't intoxicated, I was damn' well freezing. My circulation and my muscles just went wanky on me because of the wind.
Normally the bookseller and I walk home over the hill.
Not that night.
I lit up another pipe-full in the kitchen when I got home. There was no more Scotch left, so I had ginger tea instead. Probably better for me.
2. LAST WEEK
The night ended as it had started: with cheese. Earlier I had witnessed the spectacular public break-up of two winners; the successful golden people we should emulate. Which was on the public street, in full view of the lone pipesmoker out in the bitter cold and fog. San Francisco in summer tends toward frigidity, which benefits those of us who appreciate tobacco; the meanspirited anti-smoking puritans stay indoors.
Across the intersection a street person flapping a blanket stumbles past.
It may have been the same guy I to whom gave a long disquisition about Luxury Bullseye Flake the other night. To prevent him telling me anymore about his ex-girlfriend. Nobody wants to hear about his or anybody else's ex-girlfriend. The only exception to this is MY ex-girlfriend, who uses stuffed animals to speak for her and say outrageous things.
McClelland's No. 24 Virginia, after eleven years in a tin, is perfect for a night when there are droplets in the air, and spectacles refract light.
And a passing dog found the smoker fascinating.
I came back inside regretfully.
1. A FORTNIGHT AGO
Last smoke of the evening: Dunhill Deluxe Navy Rolls in a blasted Canadian, outside the pub two streets away. With two shots of Scotch inside of me, the horrible pain from my right leg is no longer noticeable. Single malt is a marvelous anti-inflammatory. I am not surprised that the British took it wherever they went. Three drinks and I wouldn't feel my feet either, but I would be insensate at that point.
The tobacco smooths out the end of the day nicely. A young gentleman with a huge teddy bear on his shoulder strolls past, fog swirls around him. The trees halfway down the block are nearly faded into the silver haze. It isn't cold, but it's hard to imagine summer elsewhere in the state. Inland, the temperature has hit ninety or a hundred, but here at this time it is mid-fifties. And densely foggy. Perfect.
I've nearly finished the tin of Navy Rolls. Should I rub out the Dunhill Dark Flake for next week, or the extra tin of Cabbie's Mixture? Maybe simply rely on generic Danish blondes for the rest of the month.
Six hours ago, while puffing a Sumatra Corona on my front steps I saw Mr. Sieuw across the street with a cigarette. Both he and his wife smoke, though not inside on mahjong nights. There's probably a spread of Maccanese food for his friends. At around eleven o'clock I had the last of the Portuguese Chicken Rice I had prepared a day earlier (a Hong Kong interpretation of a classic from Macao). He and I should compare recipes; he probably has pointers. I simply dump extra hotsauce on it if it didn't turn out well and call it a day. My version probably isn't half as good as his.
After scooping out the ashes and unsmoked shreds I smell my finger tips. Perique. I go in and put the now empty glass on the counter, bid farewell, and head home. On the corner of my block a big bearded giant is hugging a shrimp of a man. Maybe I should have another smoke .....
GLP Fillmore in a GBD squat bulldog.
Later, on the steps.
Last night I was up too late, and did not get enough sleep. So I really should go to bed early. But I don't feel like it. At work I only smoked two and a half bowls, and I've swilled enough tea during the day that I'm wired to the tits.
And I really don't need the cup of coffee on the stack of books to my left, next to the chair. Strong coffee, one cardamom pod.
So yes, I'll probably head out in a little while to have a smoke.
I need to see if the black man has recovered yet.
Betcha he still looks bleary.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
When I was in my twenties, full of piss, and often undressed.
Please don't mentally picture that.
After ten I sometimes head out with a pipe.
Peace and quiet are in order.
Perhaps whisky.
5. THE OTHER NIGHT
They both look like they need a little reaming. I left with a pouch of aged Virginia (smidgeon of Perique), one pipe in my mouth, one extra briar in the right-side coat pocket. Both Petersons, one older than I am. At the bar was a very drunken black man. Whom I know. Possibly despondent because his cousin had passed away recently, whom I also knew. He has my complete sympathy, I likewise regret the passing of a brilliant man who had wit, compassion, and talent. Both men moved to California long ago.
But I am not capable of being very human.
So I said some kind words.....
And went outside.
Several potheads a little distance away were mumbling indistinctly, three people nearby were talking about first memories. The woman from New Zealand was recalling when she was four, and the wall in a house her family had moved into was being taken down. Among my earliest memories is wanting a band-aid because Tobias (my older brother) had one, my dad painting his initials (W.E.M.) on a moving crate while I could not escape (child-proof barrier), and a storm somewhere in the North Sea near Norway. Several memorable moments after that, there was the time I got into trouble at grammar school because I mapped out the human urinary system.
Very symmetrical, with mirrored images.
In second grade.
One man holding his privates wandered past. Then another doing the same. Followed ten minutes later by a small scholarly woman with spectacles and a neat bouncy pony tail. Who probably had nothing to do with the men clutching their testicles. Testicles are very reassuring.
By then I was having my second Scotch.
And enjoying the second bowl.
We all miss Lovalle.
He was a good man.
When I got home I fixed myself another Scotch and water. It was too early to go to bed. Not even twelve.
4. A COUPLE OF DAYS AGO
Bitter cold. The end of July is proving itself as lovable as a hagfish. I had to go back inside for an extra sweater over the one I was wearing, and relight my pipe once I got out again.
This blend will absolutely require another batch: approximately three percent Perique, mostly aged red. Delightful, once it settled down. Mixing with the Louisiana leaf requires a week for everything to stabilize.
It may trigger passers-by. But there are very few of them after midnight, and either they are plugged-up, or potted. Some are both. A driver for Uber cruises slowly past, going the wrong direction on a one-way street.
Which is not confidence-inspiring.
Two people walking, animatedly in conversation. Woman: "I nearly killed myself because she wouldn't have sex with me". Now that right there is a lousy concept, and utterly ridiculous! If I killed myself because of all the people who haven't had sex with me, I'd be a right mess now.
My teenage years would have been horrid.
But you, okay then.
A delicate whisp trails over the rim, and slowly dissipates, leaving a ghost of a fragrance. Despite not being able to feel my toes, coming out was worth it. Who needs toes anyway? Hah, let them freeze.
I hope the tobacco nazis rot indoors.
3. TUESDAY
Spofford Alley is newly paved, very clean looking, and nearly rat-free. Which is sad. There had been a lively colony living there when it was still torn-up and filled with holes in the ground. It was quite impassible for garbage trucks and trash bins, and the human residents would drag their sacks to either end. Which, of course, sustained the rats.
I rather like the new surface of Spofford. Regular paving bricks, grey, rows. The weird short pillars placed along the sides to prevent parking don't really work for me. I suspect the residents are somewhat disdainful too. The rats are gone, and do not care. Except for one lively little fellow.
Later that evening I stepped out of a bar, and a block later decided I needed a taxi. No, I wasn't intoxicated, I was damn' well freezing. My circulation and my muscles just went wanky on me because of the wind.
Normally the bookseller and I walk home over the hill.
Not that night.
I lit up another pipe-full in the kitchen when I got home. There was no more Scotch left, so I had ginger tea instead. Probably better for me.
2. LAST WEEK
The night ended as it had started: with cheese. Earlier I had witnessed the spectacular public break-up of two winners; the successful golden people we should emulate. Which was on the public street, in full view of the lone pipesmoker out in the bitter cold and fog. San Francisco in summer tends toward frigidity, which benefits those of us who appreciate tobacco; the meanspirited anti-smoking puritans stay indoors.
Across the intersection a street person flapping a blanket stumbles past.
It may have been the same guy I to whom gave a long disquisition about Luxury Bullseye Flake the other night. To prevent him telling me anymore about his ex-girlfriend. Nobody wants to hear about his or anybody else's ex-girlfriend. The only exception to this is MY ex-girlfriend, who uses stuffed animals to speak for her and say outrageous things.
McClelland's No. 24 Virginia, after eleven years in a tin, is perfect for a night when there are droplets in the air, and spectacles refract light.
And a passing dog found the smoker fascinating.
I came back inside regretfully.
1. A FORTNIGHT AGO
Last smoke of the evening: Dunhill Deluxe Navy Rolls in a blasted Canadian, outside the pub two streets away. With two shots of Scotch inside of me, the horrible pain from my right leg is no longer noticeable. Single malt is a marvelous anti-inflammatory. I am not surprised that the British took it wherever they went. Three drinks and I wouldn't feel my feet either, but I would be insensate at that point.
The tobacco smooths out the end of the day nicely. A young gentleman with a huge teddy bear on his shoulder strolls past, fog swirls around him. The trees halfway down the block are nearly faded into the silver haze. It isn't cold, but it's hard to imagine summer elsewhere in the state. Inland, the temperature has hit ninety or a hundred, but here at this time it is mid-fifties. And densely foggy. Perfect.
I've nearly finished the tin of Navy Rolls. Should I rub out the Dunhill Dark Flake for next week, or the extra tin of Cabbie's Mixture? Maybe simply rely on generic Danish blondes for the rest of the month.
Six hours ago, while puffing a Sumatra Corona on my front steps I saw Mr. Sieuw across the street with a cigarette. Both he and his wife smoke, though not inside on mahjong nights. There's probably a spread of Maccanese food for his friends. At around eleven o'clock I had the last of the Portuguese Chicken Rice I had prepared a day earlier (a Hong Kong interpretation of a classic from Macao). He and I should compare recipes; he probably has pointers. I simply dump extra hotsauce on it if it didn't turn out well and call it a day. My version probably isn't half as good as his.
After scooping out the ashes and unsmoked shreds I smell my finger tips. Perique. I go in and put the now empty glass on the counter, bid farewell, and head home. On the corner of my block a big bearded giant is hugging a shrimp of a man. Maybe I should have another smoke .....
GLP Fillmore in a GBD squat bulldog.
Later, on the steps.
Last night I was up too late, and did not get enough sleep. So I really should go to bed early. But I don't feel like it. At work I only smoked two and a half bowls, and I've swilled enough tea during the day that I'm wired to the tits.
And I really don't need the cup of coffee on the stack of books to my left, next to the chair. Strong coffee, one cardamom pod.
So yes, I'll probably head out in a little while to have a smoke.
I need to see if the black man has recovered yet.
Betcha he still looks bleary.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SOMETHING IS TRYING TO GET OUT!
She doesn't always speak with the voices of the stuffed animals, sometimes she speaks with her own voice. It is at those moments that one realizes one is living with another reality in the apartment.
I am used to the senior teddy bear being the voice of reason, and the she-sheep urging everyone to behave in a civilized manner. And I am also very familiar with the head-sheep saying totally outrageous sh*t, the one-legged gibbon riling things up, the control monkey (Mr. Oyster) being possessive and inappropriate, and the shenanigans of the froad, the little black kitty, the carnivorous hamster, the vampire hamster, and the two hamsters with nunchucks. And many other voices.
I am not entirely used to her "normal" operational mode.
Yesterday evening when I came home she was yelling "putza putza putza" and swabbing her pits. Which, it turns out, was her way of coping with the fact that some relative who was picking her up for a family event had called to say he would actually pick her up half an hour earlier than planned.
The pit-swabbing part became clear once she explained it.
If it had been me, bugger the pits, I'll stink.
Being white I do that naturally.
Look, if you're going to pick someone up for a sibling dinner, probably at a Chinese restaurant because all of you are in fact Chinese, which I believe probably includes a female that one of the brothers is dating (good lord, these men are all OLDER than me!), do NOT make the appointed time earlier without at least an hour notice. Preferably several hours.
Even an entire day.
"Hello, little sister, I am calling to let you know that Saturday two days from now I shall be picking you up for dinner with the dingoes half an hour earlier than we agreed, I hope that that is okay?"
Because otherwise the crazy white guy you live with that we don't know about even though it's entirely innocent there is nothing going on between you and both of you have your own quarters is going to come stumbling in after a long day at the salt mines to find you running around wild-eyed yelling "putza putza putza" and keen to swab your pits in a hurry.
Which is disconcerting after a long day.
At the salt mines.
Safely after she left, I fixed myself a cup of strong coffee and had a cigar in the kitchen. That's something I can't really do when she's around, as she objects to the smell of tobacco.
Far better than "putza putza putza".
Whatever that is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I am used to the senior teddy bear being the voice of reason, and the she-sheep urging everyone to behave in a civilized manner. And I am also very familiar with the head-sheep saying totally outrageous sh*t, the one-legged gibbon riling things up, the control monkey (Mr. Oyster) being possessive and inappropriate, and the shenanigans of the froad, the little black kitty, the carnivorous hamster, the vampire hamster, and the two hamsters with nunchucks. And many other voices.
I am not entirely used to her "normal" operational mode.
Yesterday evening when I came home she was yelling "putza putza putza" and swabbing her pits. Which, it turns out, was her way of coping with the fact that some relative who was picking her up for a family event had called to say he would actually pick her up half an hour earlier than planned.
The pit-swabbing part became clear once she explained it.
If it had been me, bugger the pits, I'll stink.
Being white I do that naturally.
Look, if you're going to pick someone up for a sibling dinner, probably at a Chinese restaurant because all of you are in fact Chinese, which I believe probably includes a female that one of the brothers is dating (good lord, these men are all OLDER than me!), do NOT make the appointed time earlier without at least an hour notice. Preferably several hours.
Even an entire day.
"Hello, little sister, I am calling to let you know that Saturday two days from now I shall be picking you up for dinner with the dingoes half an hour earlier than we agreed, I hope that that is okay?"
Because otherwise the crazy white guy you live with that we don't know about even though it's entirely innocent there is nothing going on between you and both of you have your own quarters is going to come stumbling in after a long day at the salt mines to find you running around wild-eyed yelling "putza putza putza" and keen to swab your pits in a hurry.
Which is disconcerting after a long day.
At the salt mines.
Safely after she left, I fixed myself a cup of strong coffee and had a cigar in the kitchen. That's something I can't really do when she's around, as she objects to the smell of tobacco.
Far better than "putza putza putza".
Whatever that is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, August 04, 2018
LET REALITY BE YOUR HELMSMAN
Bad news, I'm afraid. The striking personage in Chinatown with the tutu and what appears to be a ripped black leotard may be slowly losing his mind.
My guess it's because of the cold and the soft drinks.
Too much sugar is a bitch.
So, for that matter, is the stress of urban living.
[He was mentioned in this post: 'It has feathers!'. Cite: "a bearded fellow wearing snakeskin cowboy boots and a charming tutu a few sizes too small, which wasn't perfectly clean". End cite.]
Yesterday he progressed screaming down the street.
An intervention might be necessary.
I do not know him well enough to breach his shell.
In fact, I don't know him at all.
Perhaps you do?
It is quite likely that in his other life he adheres to a different identity, specifically that of a petite female ballet dancer.
That is something with which I can sympathize; I too have imaginary personas. But I do not intend to look like them.
I dress like what I am. Not overweight. Male, mature, and reasonably clean. My wardrobe does not exhibit any eccentricities, I have no tattoos or piercings, nor bright blue or pink streaks in my hair.
I'm probably rather presentable.
The goofiness is all inside.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
My guess it's because of the cold and the soft drinks.
Too much sugar is a bitch.
So, for that matter, is the stress of urban living.
[He was mentioned in this post: 'It has feathers!'. Cite: "a bearded fellow wearing snakeskin cowboy boots and a charming tutu a few sizes too small, which wasn't perfectly clean". End cite.]
Yesterday he progressed screaming down the street.
An intervention might be necessary.
I do not know him well enough to breach his shell.
In fact, I don't know him at all.
Perhaps you do?
It is quite likely that in his other life he adheres to a different identity, specifically that of a petite female ballet dancer.
That is something with which I can sympathize; I too have imaginary personas. But I do not intend to look like them.
I dress like what I am. Not overweight. Male, mature, and reasonably clean. My wardrobe does not exhibit any eccentricities, I have no tattoos or piercings, nor bright blue or pink streaks in my hair.
I'm probably rather presentable.
The goofiness is all inside.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, August 03, 2018
DUDE, IT'S THE COFFEE!
Another person, let's call him a friend even though we will never eat at the same table or even in the same restaurants, but he's kind of likeable, claims that BECAUSE he has a large kale shake with turmeric, black pepper, honey, ginger, algae, and a dash of apple cider vinegar every morning, after his cup of coffee, he feels better than ever. It really wakes him up and gives him boundless energy.
Two things:
1) Breakfast is the most important meal of the day; it kickstarts digestion, metabolism, and brain function. Eating a flattened possum on the side of road has the same effect as the kale shake with all that crap.
2) Coffee? You know how caffeine works, right?
Okay, three things. The third:
He believes that childhood vaccination took him down at least ten IQ points, and decreased his romantic chances. And that this kale concoction (with turmeric, black pepper, honey, ginger, algae, and apple cider vinegar) is slowly reversing that. He can feel it.
I have, of course, explained to him that he's simply getting older and crazier.
This may seem like reborn youth, but that is deceptive.
No, I haven't asked him for his recipe.
COFFEE IS THE MOST IMPORTANT MEAL OF THE DAY
The proper way to start the day is with a cup (or two) of coffee. And perhaps something solid, because you 'like' your digestive system and maybe you want something to munch on. Plus your blood sugar is low, and you feel torpid after sleep.
There is no part of that which includes kale, unless you sauté it with a bit of bacon, and have it with toast and a little yoghurt. In this case, spices are okay too. Chilies, black pepper, ginger, turmeric. Algae is not a spice.
You could also have it with a fresh croissant, but only if it is a proper French, Belgian, or Southern Dutch croissant. Not that beastly buttery greasy dough lump Americans think is a croissant. You want to get fat, you eat that crap. You want a decent croissant, you go to Northern Europe.
By the way, raw kale, no matter how well you clean it, can still harbour pests and bugs. E-coli, campylobacter, salmonella, listeria, and several extremely fascinating parasites. Altogether nearly half of all food poisoning cases are caused be such things, less than five percent by angry in-laws or wizards.
Have some coffee instead.
It's what you need.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Two things:
1) Breakfast is the most important meal of the day; it kickstarts digestion, metabolism, and brain function. Eating a flattened possum on the side of road has the same effect as the kale shake with all that crap.
2) Coffee? You know how caffeine works, right?
Okay, three things. The third:
He believes that childhood vaccination took him down at least ten IQ points, and decreased his romantic chances. And that this kale concoction (with turmeric, black pepper, honey, ginger, algae, and apple cider vinegar) is slowly reversing that. He can feel it.
I have, of course, explained to him that he's simply getting older and crazier.
This may seem like reborn youth, but that is deceptive.
No, I haven't asked him for his recipe.
COFFEE IS THE MOST IMPORTANT MEAL OF THE DAY
The proper way to start the day is with a cup (or two) of coffee. And perhaps something solid, because you 'like' your digestive system and maybe you want something to munch on. Plus your blood sugar is low, and you feel torpid after sleep.
There is no part of that which includes kale, unless you sauté it with a bit of bacon, and have it with toast and a little yoghurt. In this case, spices are okay too. Chilies, black pepper, ginger, turmeric. Algae is not a spice.
You could also have it with a fresh croissant, but only if it is a proper French, Belgian, or Southern Dutch croissant. Not that beastly buttery greasy dough lump Americans think is a croissant. You want to get fat, you eat that crap. You want a decent croissant, you go to Northern Europe.
By the way, raw kale, no matter how well you clean it, can still harbour pests and bugs. E-coli, campylobacter, salmonella, listeria, and several extremely fascinating parasites. Altogether nearly half of all food poisoning cases are caused be such things, less than five percent by angry in-laws or wizards.
Have some coffee instead.
It's what you need.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, August 02, 2018
ALL WHITE PEOPLE LOOK ALIKE
The other day a prominent politician claimed that you need an ID to go shopping. Which surprised me, because in the last week I have purchased both food and drink from a convenience store, small Dutch cigars from a tobacconist, vegetables from several shops in Chinatown, as well as noodles and coffee from one of those shops, and hot sauce.
In California you must be able to prove that you are twenty one years of age or older to buy tobacco products. I look significantly more than that.
They did not ask for my ID.
"You know, if you go out and you want to buy groceries, you need a picture on a card, you need ID."
The convenience store is staffed by Sub-Continentals (messrs. Singh), the places in Chinatown by Cantonese. At least I think they are Cantonese. They speak Cantonese. But they could be outer space aliens.
I am a horrible judge of character.
No one asked for my ID.
This isn't Florida.
It is doubtful that in all the instances I mentioned except the tobacconist an ID would be useful, because in the vast majority of cases most people do not resemble their pictures (my passport shows some old git I do not know, and my ID card has a picture of a thoroughly evil looking lizard), and to many neighborhood shopkeepers all of us look the same anyway.
White people especially. Zombies, man.
And possible shoplifters too.
The skeevy!
If your son has a white girlfriend, you probably can't recognize her unless she's with him. And even then you have doubts.
She looks so "different".
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In California you must be able to prove that you are twenty one years of age or older to buy tobacco products. I look significantly more than that.
They did not ask for my ID.
"You know, if you go out and you want to buy groceries, you need a picture on a card, you need ID."
The convenience store is staffed by Sub-Continentals (messrs. Singh), the places in Chinatown by Cantonese. At least I think they are Cantonese. They speak Cantonese. But they could be outer space aliens.
I am a horrible judge of character.
No one asked for my ID.
This isn't Florida.
It is doubtful that in all the instances I mentioned except the tobacconist an ID would be useful, because in the vast majority of cases most people do not resemble their pictures (my passport shows some old git I do not know, and my ID card has a picture of a thoroughly evil looking lizard), and to many neighborhood shopkeepers all of us look the same anyway.
White people especially. Zombies, man.
And possible shoplifters too.
The skeevy!
If your son has a white girlfriend, you probably can't recognize her unless she's with him. And even then you have doubts.
She looks so "different".
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, August 01, 2018
THERE IS NO LSD IN THE PIZZA, BUT PERHAPS THERE SHOULD BE
A theory being promoted on social media holds that vaccinations are a plot by big pharma to co-opt most people into being shills for Nazi chemistry and mind control. Allegedly vaccinations kill or disable a large number of people, which is covered up by conspirators hidden high in the secret halls of power.
As proof, anti-vaxxers offer youtube videos (and links to natural healing websites), and demand that skeptics watch them and believe.
It's a modus operandi that many conspiracy nuts have; links to youtube and wild-eyed agenda pages where TRUTH will be REVEALED!
[By the way: that map that shows the spread of nuclear radiation across the entire Pacific from the Fukushima meltdown? That's actually about the extent of the Tsunami from the Tohoku quake.]
You know, years ago, before the internet, nutballs would paint their theses in caps on the sides of their hippie vans and drive slowly around town.
Plus they'd leave flyers in coffee shops and newspaper racks.
Or on a table in the fifth floor lunch room.
Then they'd have meltdowns.
The internet (Reddit, 4Chan, 8Chan, et autres) has made it easily possible to reach a vast audience of credulous people who are willing to believe almost anything negative about "the other side".
Tin Foil Hat Stevie is convince that the Clinton Foundation and Vladimir Putin intend to frack Marin County, started the Santa Rosa fire, and killed Robin Williams because he knew too much. I am not sure if his statement that Queen Elizabeth enjoys eating babies and drinking human body fluids is part of this theory, or is an entirely separate disreality.
Space Captain John is convinced that Freemasons maintain control of all governments, as well as that Israel and the Rothschilds are complicit in evil worldwide. Violent South American criminal gangs are their shocktroops, and take orders from the Republican Party.
Cigar Biker Raymond tells me that the pyramids were built by aliens fifty thousand years ago, and that everything we are today is because the Babylonians have genetically engineered modern humans.
The only reason I have occasion to encounter these three and other batshit crazies is because of work. Left to my own devices I'd run screaming into the salt marshes to get away from them, bij wijze van spreken.
I recently told an anti-vaxxer that he was an idiot.
That is the only interaction I shall have.
He lives on the East Coast.
No face to face.
It is both reassuring and seriously disturbing at the same time that there are over a quarter of a billion people living between him and myself. Statistically several million of them have problems with facts.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
As proof, anti-vaxxers offer youtube videos (and links to natural healing websites), and demand that skeptics watch them and believe.
It's a modus operandi that many conspiracy nuts have; links to youtube and wild-eyed agenda pages where TRUTH will be REVEALED!
[By the way: that map that shows the spread of nuclear radiation across the entire Pacific from the Fukushima meltdown? That's actually about the extent of the Tsunami from the Tohoku quake.]
You know, years ago, before the internet, nutballs would paint their theses in caps on the sides of their hippie vans and drive slowly around town.
Plus they'd leave flyers in coffee shops and newspaper racks.
Or on a table in the fifth floor lunch room.
Then they'd have meltdowns.
The internet (Reddit, 4Chan, 8Chan, et autres) has made it easily possible to reach a vast audience of credulous people who are willing to believe almost anything negative about "the other side".
Tin Foil Hat Stevie is convince that the Clinton Foundation and Vladimir Putin intend to frack Marin County, started the Santa Rosa fire, and killed Robin Williams because he knew too much. I am not sure if his statement that Queen Elizabeth enjoys eating babies and drinking human body fluids is part of this theory, or is an entirely separate disreality.
Space Captain John is convinced that Freemasons maintain control of all governments, as well as that Israel and the Rothschilds are complicit in evil worldwide. Violent South American criminal gangs are their shocktroops, and take orders from the Republican Party.
Cigar Biker Raymond tells me that the pyramids were built by aliens fifty thousand years ago, and that everything we are today is because the Babylonians have genetically engineered modern humans.
The only reason I have occasion to encounter these three and other batshit crazies is because of work. Left to my own devices I'd run screaming into the salt marshes to get away from them, bij wijze van spreken.
I recently told an anti-vaxxer that he was an idiot.
That is the only interaction I shall have.
He lives on the East Coast.
No face to face.
It is both reassuring and seriously disturbing at the same time that there are over a quarter of a billion people living between him and myself. Statistically several million of them have problems with facts.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, July 31, 2018
IT HAS FEATHERS!
The first smoke of the day was after porkchops on Pacific. As I lit my pipe, the flock of pigeons descended upon a discarded sweet bun, frightening the living bejazus out of a little girl walking past with her granddad. She gave a panicky yelp. Or squawk. The sparrows trying to horn in on the feast were more confident. They've experienced this before.
Beckett, Jackson Street, Ross Alley, Spofford, Hang Ah Alley.
The nasty deposits on Beckett have been covered with sand, there are a multitude of tourists on Jackson, as well as in Ross outside the fortune cookie factory, Spofford looks clean and new, and on Hang Ah alley a druggie was singing to himself while injecting stuff into his arm.
Those mushroom sauce porkchops over rice were really quite lovely. There was a slight wait before I got seated, as they do a booming lunch business, but like the folks at the bank, they address me in Chinese, having gotten used to my accent.
And they automatically bring me the bottle of chili sauce.
Which the folks at the bank have not done yet.
I'll be surprised if they start.
The show on the teevee screen hung above the back table was the tail-end of a cooking show -- steamed pi pa lute soy bean curd (蒸琵琶豆腐), in which the shape of the musical instrument is cleverly achieved by using porcelain spoons as the containers for the mixture -- which segued into a talk and variety show with three hip dingoes, a floor covered with fake grass, and an audience of manic youngsters sprinkled with a few bored looking old people. And how to make broccoli soup.
Served cold. It is good for you.
Probably makes you go.
The Cantonese have accepted broccoli. As I get older I reject it. Chinese broccoli is far, far better, being more closely related to leafy mustard,
rather than the woody green cousin of cauliflower or whatever.
The porkchops and rice come with a handful of plain steamed brocs, of which I always eat some of because it's healthy and promotes something something something, but it's still a boring inconsequential vegetable.
After finishing my pipe I did some shopping before wandering down to Tea Bear Cafe for a sit and a beverage, and eventually loaded up another pipe. While contemplating the miracle that is Perique, several eccentrics passed by in various directions. The gentleman with a straw doll-hat on his head and very tight faded army green, Patches (also known as 'Raggedy Andy'), whom you should never talk to, because he's a very angry person and you will regret it, and a bearded fellow wearing snakeskin cowboy boots and a charming tutu a few sizes too small, which wasn't perfectly clean.
That last mentioned individual dances and sings.
When he thinks no one is watching.
I realized that the reason why I get treated so well in the neighborhood is because I look quite kempt, don't act weird, and have age. If you keep yourself clean and reasonably trimmed, you belong.
At least you are unobjectionable.
Regarding the sparrows I mentioned earlier, I had to look up what that bird is called in English. Sparrows, bushtits, and blackbirds (mussen, mezen, en merels) are some of my favourite small birds. Finches, robins, and towhees (vinken, roodborstjes en towieën) not so much. The scrub-jay (de blauwe haher), of course, is spectacular and memorable, and acts rather like its charming larger cousin, the crow (de kraai).
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Beckett, Jackson Street, Ross Alley, Spofford, Hang Ah Alley.
The nasty deposits on Beckett have been covered with sand, there are a multitude of tourists on Jackson, as well as in Ross outside the fortune cookie factory, Spofford looks clean and new, and on Hang Ah alley a druggie was singing to himself while injecting stuff into his arm.
Those mushroom sauce porkchops over rice were really quite lovely. There was a slight wait before I got seated, as they do a booming lunch business, but like the folks at the bank, they address me in Chinese, having gotten used to my accent.
And they automatically bring me the bottle of chili sauce.
Which the folks at the bank have not done yet.
I'll be surprised if they start.
The show on the teevee screen hung above the back table was the tail-end of a cooking show -- steamed pi pa lute soy bean curd (蒸琵琶豆腐), in which the shape of the musical instrument is cleverly achieved by using porcelain spoons as the containers for the mixture -- which segued into a talk and variety show with three hip dingoes, a floor covered with fake grass, and an audience of manic youngsters sprinkled with a few bored looking old people. And how to make broccoli soup.
Served cold. It is good for you.
Probably makes you go.
The Cantonese have accepted broccoli. As I get older I reject it. Chinese broccoli is far, far better, being more closely related to leafy mustard,
rather than the woody green cousin of cauliflower or whatever.
The porkchops and rice come with a handful of plain steamed brocs, of which I always eat some of because it's healthy and promotes something something something, but it's still a boring inconsequential vegetable.
After finishing my pipe I did some shopping before wandering down to Tea Bear Cafe for a sit and a beverage, and eventually loaded up another pipe. While contemplating the miracle that is Perique, several eccentrics passed by in various directions. The gentleman with a straw doll-hat on his head and very tight faded army green, Patches (also known as 'Raggedy Andy'), whom you should never talk to, because he's a very angry person and you will regret it, and a bearded fellow wearing snakeskin cowboy boots and a charming tutu a few sizes too small, which wasn't perfectly clean.
That last mentioned individual dances and sings.
When he thinks no one is watching.
I realized that the reason why I get treated so well in the neighborhood is because I look quite kempt, don't act weird, and have age. If you keep yourself clean and reasonably trimmed, you belong.
At least you are unobjectionable.
Regarding the sparrows I mentioned earlier, I had to look up what that bird is called in English. Sparrows, bushtits, and blackbirds (mussen, mezen, en merels) are some of my favourite small birds. Finches, robins, and towhees (vinken, roodborstjes en towieën) not so much. The scrub-jay (de blauwe haher), of course, is spectacular and memorable, and acts rather like its charming larger cousin, the crow (de kraai).
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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GRITS AND TOFU
Like most Americans, I have a list of people who should be peacefully retired from public service and thereafter kept away from their desks,...
