PLEASE IMAGINE MEDICATION

You know that thing they say when someone is slowly turning into a weirdo loner? When it's obvious that there is no one in their life who will keep them grounded, and they gradually start convincing themselves that the Clintons are lizard-aliens, or that Obama is white?

Usually they say that that person needs a sexual experience.

Well, that won't help in this case. Both Little White Nipple Dude and Tinfoil Hat Stevie are too far gone.

This morning Tinfoil Hat Stevie was on the phone with his credit-card company. When is his money going to be refunded?
He filled out all the forms.


That conversation went sideways fast.


See, the problem is that "they" are tracking him, because Shell and Trump are planning to strip-mine Marin County. All of it. Now that the Russians and the Clinton Foundation have stepped back because their cover got blown.
Everybody knows that the Ruskies and Clintons were planning to frack Marin. They showed their hand when they killed Robin Williams.

Fo' shizzle.

He spent twenty minutes angrily trying to convince the poor clerk on the other end of the line of these facts, which are important, dammit, and fundamental to understanding why and how his credit card got stolen.
So it's not his fault, and where's his money?


"WHAT HE NEEDS IS A GOOD LAY!"


Yeah, no. That kind of weird-ass old fart needs Valium, is what. And no woman needs that between her bed sheets or in the backseat of her car. Or man. If he's that way. Which if he is, would embarrass all the fine gay gentlemen I know. They don't need that fronting for them.

He does NOT need a good lay. Any lay. And kindly stop saying that, you're making it seem like sex cures "eccentricity". It doesn't. Trust me on this.

And Little White Nipple Dude was already problematic before adolescence, from what I hear, and has become calmer and more well-behaved as he's entered middle-age, though in no way less dreary and fanciful.
But that might be because of his imaginary wife.
And the fourteen year old daughter.
Also figmentary.

If he had a good lay, it would only complicate matters.

Besides, for both of these splendid exemplars of irritating goobus the ideal woman would surely be a four hundred pound female wrestler who doesn't take crap from anyone. And who is herself "forcefull".

"Jes' lay down and shut up, little man. Conversation isn't your strong suit, and that isn't why you're here."

You know, I would worry about her.
Maybe she likes living wild?

In any case, it ain't gonna happen.
And I don't want to hear about it.
In any detail, even forensically.




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A VERY CIVILIZED INCENSE

What do you get when a dozen pipesmokers gather together to enjoy each other's company on a Sunday afternoon? Salami. You get salami. Oh, and dips, cheese, bread, smoked meat, and crunchy chips. Because there will be wine. You also get a situation where the briar men outnumber the cigar afficionadoes, which is rare.

Normally it takes savage herding with cattle prods to achieve that.
Especially here in the Bay Area, where tobacco is loathed.

Pot is fine though. Because everyone knows that marijuana is grown by little green men in the rainforests, who hug trees, save dolphins, sing lovely melodies, recycle, and are deeply wise and spiritual beings.
Tobacco is horrible and victimizes the little children.
Pot is therapeutic, meaningful, and green.


Actually, as a confirmed lover of pipes and fine tobacco, I really do want to rope in the precious wee kiddy-winkies. Because when I am a doddering old cripple in my nineties several decades hence, the only legal smoking area in the entire region will probably be out in the middle of the tidal flats, and I'll need someone young and vibrant to push my wheel chair out there.
I will not be able to count on my fellow pipe men for that.
So I had best recruit converts now.
Fresh blood.


Come here, little girl, would you like some nice brown Virginia flake? There is just a smidge of fire cured in it, for excitement. You like excitement, yes?
I have several briars I can lend you. But you must take good care of them, and not smoke sleazy aromatic compounds. Use pipe cleaners, don't huff furiously, and let the leaf dry out a bit. All tobacco is far too moist when packaged, which keeps it from crumbling to dust if it's shipped halfway around the world, and gives the impression that it's fresh.

Given that it was aged both before and after blending, fresh is wrong.
You want something with a few years on it.
Mature.

I started off the day with a bowl full of Arango's Balkan Supreme, while introducing a Cantonese speaker from the city to pipe smoking. He was mighty impressed. And rightly so, because it is a damned fine mixture, rich with Latakia, Turkish, and a great Virginia and black fundament. After that, two bowls of a full-bodied Virginia and Perique compound made by Cornell and Diehl, courtesy of Joe who waltzed in around mid day. Lovely stuff. Washed everything down with enough tea to float the Titanic. Then salami, zesty herb dip, cheese, bread, smoked meat, and some crunchy chips. Didn't touch the wine, because I do not drink liquor till evening.

Dan brought in some homemade pressed Virginia and Perique, which smells earthy, and which I will likely smoke Tuesday morning once my apartment mate has left for the day and I've shut her bedroom door.
It will probably go well with strong coffee.


Oh, and everybody wished me a happy birthday, which it was recently.
I am not the youngest member of the pipe club.
But okay, older now.

[Stubborn crotchets and birthdays are a bad mix.]


The ideal companion for a middle aged pipesmoker, and this may surprise you, is someone very much like the young lady in the illustration above.

Intelligent, individualistic, and intellectually curious. But mature enough to appreciate the finer things in life (like flue-cured leaves, or a resinous and perfumy Balkan blend), and of a calm and restrained temperament.
Someone who can see the value of craftsmanship.
Or why a new anvil is necessary.
Maybe likes music.
Books.



By the way, I should mention that I am single.

All the other members of the pipe club aren't.

They are taken. Quite entirely off the market.



Avoid pot. It's used by f*&cking degenerates only, rots the brain, and inveigles people into a life of sin, decadence, and depravities.
Only fools and perverts smoke pot.

TOBACCO INDEX


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I HAVEN'T CUT MYSELF IN YEARS

Facebook introduces one to people with lives quite different than one's own. One of whom deserves mention, because his 'hobby' is shaving. Fine badger hair brushes, carefully compounded high-quality soaps (some creamy, some not), and old fashioned razor blades.

I appreciate his passion, but shall not friend him. Because besides his shaving regularly, I know only one other thing about him. He's a pipesmoker and drinks coffee. Nothing about his politics or worldview.

Looks like a decent enough chap.
Might be a psycho.


My shaving follows hot coffee (two cups) in the morning. It involves a disposable razor and plain hand soap at the sink, just before a shower.


Indeed, I do have a very nice shaving brush.
But I do not make love to my face.
It's strictly business.


There is no reason for me to "soften and lift my beard" with a perfect lather. My soaps and blades do not come from carefully curated collections chosen by experts maintaining a craft passed down from the ancestors.
The lovely shaving brush sits in a bookcase.
Next to the pipe stem polish.

The following is from the "what the hell did I just watch?" file.


THE ART OF SHAVING ...

[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YhCMq_d2Pko.]



Tragically, I am not a hipster.




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A BIT MUCH

Dinner tonight: Roast duck. Charsiu pork. Mustard leaf, sauteed with garlic. Dau miu, also sauteed. Followed by Saint Honoré cake. So yes, it was a very good evening. Having coffee right now, but I will need to step out for a last pipe of the day. Later.

Also a discussion about a crazy-ass entertainer and his mind-meld with our president. Which was one of the most bizarre events this week, possibly ever, and kept Donald Trump from going to Florida and flinging rolls of kitchen paper at desperate drenched people.

In this year's Racial Draft, it certain now that the White Delegation will pick Kanye West. We have no choice. The blacks don't want him, and the Republicans think he's a god.


There have been several pungent comments about his recent performance.
By black people who insist he does not represent them.
Much like many of us white people assert that Donald "stinking tax cheeto" Trump is not what we are either.
And Chinese Americans think Elaine Chao is a Kentucky opportunist.


Consensus about Kanye: give this guy some medication.


We did not have wine with dinner, because my apartment mate is Chinese American and cannot drink, and I'm white and do not wish it to seem that my ancestral culture's well-know weakness for massive amounts of hooch (have you SEEN some of those Brueghel or Jan Steen paintings?!?) has influenced me, so our conversation was cold sober.

[The Drunken Couple, by Jan Steen, at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam]

So okay, I'm not really Dutch, as my family has been here since the days of Nieuw Amsterdam. But that weakness, you know. That also explains why so many of us American Netherlanders over the centuries have become Evangelicals (heretics) or Mormons (raving damned heathens).

My apartment mate's kin include Presbyterians and Southern Baptists (her daddy was Chinese from Texas), so she isn't quite Chinese either.

Not too far from the basket people.
It's a small island.


But lord knows, Trump and his crazy-ass friends don't represent us.
If anything represents us, it is the Gateau Saint Honoré.
Fluffy, wonderful, and multi-textured.


Absolutely nobody in the Trump administration deserves Saint Honoré cake. But none of them can spell it either, nor would they be able to identify it if it came up and bit them in their spongy part.



Kanye is a space alien.



Florida needs tissue.



Good night.




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CAT BAIT

While rooting through the pile near my chair I found something that I cannot remember purchasing, though at that time I probably thought it a good idea. And very tasty looking. It still looks mighty delish!
Ground fried tuna floss.


鮪魚鬆
[FUI YÜ SUNG]

The formal name for 'tuna' is 鮪魚 ("sturgeonesque fish"), but in Hong Kong it is normally called 吞拿魚 ("swallow grasp fish"), pronounced 'tan naa yü'. Which is a borrowed word. Hong Kong people regard it as a useful and mundane item in the canned food aisle, and haven't tried to turn it into casserole material. Yet. But perhaps 吞拿魚煲仔飯。
They already have 香蔥吞拿魚煎餅。
Scallion-tuna pattie.

Fish and meat floss (鬆 'sung') is often added to congee, or simply dumped on rice as a flavouring, with or without peanuts, seaweed, or potted meats.

This is a vacuum sealed package.
Expired in September 2015.

I will not open it.


What I shall do, however, is look for a replacement, at least two packets, so that in addition to letting a successor sit around way beyond the 'use by' date, I can actually have some on my rice or congee.


There's a food shop on Washington Street that probably has it. They also stock a wide variety of frozen dumplings, dried noodles, packaged small snackie things, condiments, insta coffee, and candies.
Not far from a dim sum place.
Friday lunch.
A plan.


鮪魚鬆



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KANYE'S FAMILY SHOULD FEED HIM BLANCMANGE!

Oh lord! When I got home she (my apartment mate) was watching the news on youtube. Which included Mitch McConnell's ... Kanye West's incoherent ten minute rant in the oval office. I'm sorry, every time now when I think of Donald Trump and Mitch McConnell ... pardon me, Kanye West together,
it's going to be difficult getting Mitch McConnell out of my head.
Same succubus, different flesh vehicle.
Ghouls of a feather.

To get that filth out of her mind, she then listened to Mozart's Magic Flute, the Queen of the Night staccatos, where Pamina is ordered to kill Sarastro.
Most well-known aria: "Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen".
It is, apparently, not good to sing this on a loaded bladder.
Pamina claims she is a Buddhist, and can't kill.

"I did NOT raise you to be a Buddhist!"

"No dessert for you!"

Somehow 'blancmange' figures into this. Not quite sure how.
I am not a cultured person, so I don't know opera.
But I think Mozart was hungry.


I have never thought of Mitch McConnell ... I'm sorry, Kanye West, as a very stable genius. Very stable anything.


My attempt to get Mitch McConnell's ... I mean, Kanye West's, batshit crazy verbal love attack on Donald Trump out of my head did not involve Mozart. Instead, a grilled Italian sausage, and a quesadilla. Lots of hot sauce.
It worked. Mitch McConnell ... erm, Kanye West, is gone.



She's still singing!



Mitch's folks need to take better care of him.
It's hard to find plump children nowadays.

Kanye's.



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A SUITABLE BACKDROP FOR A SELFIE

When she came home last night, my apartment mate was snarling about how soon there won't be any places left for her kind. They're yuppifying in Chinatown. Gold Mountain Dim Sum is gone, now there is a place where white people eat in an ambiantic atmosphere, complete with anteeky furniture that ancient poets and fairy-emperors might sit upon.
It is a very clean place. High-priced.

Yeah, I know.

I am still lamenting the disappearance of Yong Kee, San Wah Kue, and the ABC. As well as Ping Yuen Bakery & Restaurant from long ago.

[容記糕粉、新華僑餐廳、ABC大餐廳、平園餅家]


White folks favour pretty-pretty, combined with non-industrial lighting, polite yellow staff who speak English with the merest accent but are otherwise quiet and attentive, and top quality American Chinese Restaurant food on beautiful porcelain. Chop suey, kung pao, and General Tso.

They want a designer ghetto.

No poor people.



I am debating whether to have siu mai, greasy black bean sauce spareribs and rice, or delicious porkchops on my next day off. None of those is served in a preciously elegant environment, there are no poets there.





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MAKE IT TORRID

On days off (such as Tuesday and Wednesday), the first order of business is to fix coffee and read the news. Which, rather than wasting any time on the propaganda put out by Fox, means The New York Times or The Washington Post, the BBC website, Het Parool (Dutch), Volkskrant (also in Dutch), De Telegraaf (Dutch, but a bit trashy), the Franfurter Algemeine Zeitung (German), and The South China Morning Post (Hong Kong).
Some intensive reading, some light skimming.

No, the San Francisco Chronicle is seldom on my plate; their internet site (SF Gate) is full of slow-loading crap that gums up my computer, and Truthwars isn't either, unless I want to laugh at a batshit blowtoad.

The key to maintaining one's equalibrium is to avoid some sites.

Arutz Sheva and the Jerusalem Post, for instance.


Arutz Sheva is still linked here, because sometimes one needs to see what the settler rightwing is up to, but over the years they hired more crazies, and their standards have slipped lower and lower.
Life is too short.

The Jerusalem Post employs Caroline Glick.
Who is a propaganda harpy.
Lemuric.




In the considered opinion of this blogger, Alex Jones and Caroline Glick should get married. Or at least have a passionate and tumultuous affair. They are perfectly suited to each other, and the resulting love-children would be the cutest little predators like in the Alien movie series.

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SHEEP HERDING GIRLS!

My friend was going to listen to an hour and a half of rhythm and blues to get it all out of his head. We had heard too much mediocre Mandarin singing, and he wanted to wipe his mind clean.

Fårflokken i Indre Mongolia og Vest-Tibet!

It seemed like every other karaoke tune was about herding stuff, on the vast grasslands of Inner Mongolia and Western Tibet (內蒙古和西藏). A girl with long sleeves singing about the beauty of an endless horizon and her love for the chairman, her homeland/hometown, or a dashing young man.

As sung along either by the tittie groper or the skeevy dude who assured me that both of us Italians were very handsome and dignified.

I'm getting a little too old for this crap.

I have become an adult.


We did find out, however, that even though it never snows in Lingnan, it IS possible to sing soulfully about blizzards in Cantonese; an intellectual concept that colonizers took to the subtropics two millennia ago.

Anything is better than The Eagles or John Denver.

I really hate The Eagles, man.


Other than us two Italianate pretty boys (meaning: trim middle-aged white men), there were no other Caucasians there.

Jolly good thing, that.

Baa.





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A LUGGAGE PARADIGM

A few years ago I switched from smoking full Latakia blends to flakes and Virginia-Perique mixtures. As befits a somewhat older man, though that was not the reason. I finally re-experimented with some of the Rattrays products, after an hiatus of decades, and realized what I had been missing.

For much of my life I thoroughly enjoyed full Orientals, because they were deliciously reeky, and triggered so many non-smoking yutzes. Nowadays these would send the entire city of Berkeley into palpitations, and possibly apoplectic rage, but the appeal of something which can be enjoyed quietly alone and smells so delightfully old-fashioned pleases me more now.
I live in San Francisco, and avoid Berkeley (because it's toxic).
People are too clean and pure there.
In SF, we stink.

What also disturbs some people is an accoutrement.
A very snazzy Hello Kitty backpack.

Yowza!!

It holds enough pipes and tobacco that I can brave the heathen wastelands of Marin on my working days, and need not fear that I will be without certain comforts. Four to six briars, pouches and tins of tobacco, cleaners, tampers, matches, an extra bottle of hot sauce if necessary, and other things.

There are people who do not understand the concept.
Mostly humourless cretins, and I avoid them.

Me and my stylish accessory are very happy.
Thank you for asking.





Current tastes: Hong Kong milk tea, baked Portuguese chicken rice, coffee with cardamom in the morning and early evening, running script calligraphy, whisky and whiskey, and sometimes things coloured pink.
No goths, piercings, or tattoos.





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THE VAST CONSPIRACY

One theory going around is that the reason America went into Iraq under spurious justification was to seize control of Saddam Hussein's stargate. And that the Illuminati / Bilderburgers / Masons / Jews / Yale University's Skull and Bones Fraternity are trying to keeping it secret, and silencing everybody who knows and disseminates the truth.

Which also explains current Republican excesses.
Trump, Haley, Bolton, Kavanaugh.

This is almost as entertaining as Tinfoil Hat Stevie's firmly held belief that Robin Williams was killed because he knew too much about the Clinton Foundation and Russian Consulate in SF fracking in Marin, which will make them untold billions.

They are after him too, because he knows.
And won't shut up.


A "stargate", for those unaware of the concept, is a device brought to this planet by space beings which allows one to teleport to anywhere in the universe instantly, over vast distances. Ancient visitors installed several of these in the Mid-East, with preprogrammed and engineered destinations to planets in different star systems where the natural environment is much like Earth. Breathable air and everything. But drier and more desert-like.
And again: Illuminati / Bilderburgers / Masons ...
Jews, and Skull and Bones.

Aliens!


This explains why someone with whom I have to associate occasionally, who in his workday life is actually quite competent and knows what he's doing, is currently studying ancient Middle Eastern languages.
He is an ancient gods hipster.

Over the past few years at work I have met Tinfoil Hat Stevie, Captain Space, Little White Nipple Guy, a gentleman who told me in great detail how Hillary and the Dem-O-Crats were selling child sex slaves out of a pizza parlour, an Irishman who believes Trump is the last great hope of America, an old fossil who accuses liberals of every chicanery on the planet, and several folks who use tobacco in mystic magic ceremonies or want something pure and natural precisely like the natives smoked.
Non-gmo, gluten-free. And very potent juju!

It really does not take all kinds.
They're just there.

I have become adept at amateur psychological counseling.
These people are already disturbed anyway.
I damage them further.

At least I try.





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KILL ALL THE REPUBLICANS!

For three days now the garment has been on the sidewalk on my way to work. The colour says young woman, gay and sprightly, but the size and style tell me it's someone older and more elephantine. Bright and deep raspberry pink, with lace edging. Granny panties.

I have to wonder how they ended up there. No gay drinking establishment is nearby, just a McDonalds and a 7-Eleven. What I suspect happened is that Grandma Cletus had a tasty meal at one place with her boyfriend, and then bought two bottles of California Chardonnay at the other place.
After which things got interesting.

And then they went home to their respective spouses.

No, I haven't closely examined the object.

I doubt that anyone has.

Ever.


Weird things happen in Marin County after dark. The happy-hued Texas-sized feminine underwear is just one scrap of evidence, but on a regular basis there is much more. Often that seems to involve liquor, drugs, 5-hour energy drinks, schizophrenia, and the insane people who travel back and forth to San Rafael. Perhaps that's where they get Federal, State, and County assistance in being crazy, or it's a mystic pilgrimage centre, but the weather there is, on average, twenty degrees warmer than San Francisco, and much more conducive to their life-style choices than the city.

No, I have never been there. Just met the transitory natives.

They seem to be fond of marijuana and 'shrooms.

SF is more Coke and Heroin.


Shocking pink granny panties occur right in between.
Along with tasty burgers and cheap wine.
A veritable slice of heaven.


From what I could see, the cotton was perfectly clean.




The title of this blogpost? Oh that is just to trigger some people. Particularly some rightwing folks in Israel, who forgot what their side said about Obama for eight years, as well as all the shit they spewed about Hillary.
A number of them unfriended me recently.
It was something I said.

BTW: the worst ones were de-Facebooked quite a while back.
Between the bombardment of Gaza and January 2017.
Their racist garbage got to me.





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IT PROBABLY CHAFED!

My reading tastes have changed, which is why I am currently trimming the blog roll. In one or two cases it's purely vindictive, but there are some blogs which haven't published anything in ages, and also a few where I'm wondering why on earth I ever put their links along the margin.

Such as the gentleman who started his most recent blog post with "I am fingering my gold lamay looin cloth, and wondering about the rash".

That was in 2013.


"I am fingering my  -----  rash"


No, I cannot remember why that prize was added.
But I have deleted that link.
Good luck, dude.


Oh, the luxury of a gold lamé loincloth!


It's an ongoing project. So far I've reached the far shrubbery in my slash-and-burn. Several blogs by people I like have been kept, despite the fact that they've been sitting around with their thumb up their donkey for several years, because they are worth re-reading on occasion.

A number of people who are deceased are still there.

Kept without question: crows, tobacco, and shark fin.



By the way: kindly read Dovbear.
Worth every moment since, like, forever.




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SORRY. ACTUALLY, STRIKE THAT.

It looks like I am going to lose a lot of Facebook friends over what I posted there last night. Many of them are people I have known for years. But they have a soft spot for the Republicans, why some of their best friends dot dot dot et mult cetera, and several of them hated Obama anyway ......

It used to be that Republicans were in the main decent people.

And Russia and Israel didn't wield undue influence.


I am okay with friends evaporating.


Especially if they espouse pro-evangelical/hard right points of view. Those people aren't "fellow Americans", but traitors plain and simple, in the pockets of the Russians, the NRA, and the insurance industry.



So, what was it I wrote?

This:
"If someone were to fire bomb an evangelical church OR blow a Republican Senator's brains out with a gun, I would neither mind, nor morally judge them."

And:
"After all, who are we to interfere with the expression of strong political views? Especially given that we have the right to use guns against our fellow citizens."

[That last statement is paraphrasing the NRA.]

If you choose to read this as an encouragement to violence, that is entirely your own affair. I am totally apathetic about it. Whatever happens to those people is not my concern. They can rot in hell or die of the pox.
It's all good.


By putting Brett Kavanaugh on the Supreme Court, they have created a situation where many citizens will regard the Supreme Court as a hurdle, of dubious legitimacy, whose decisions must be questioned, much like anything decided by this president and this congress. But while we can eventually vote the sons-of-bitches and Christians out, we will be stuck with 'beer-boy' for decades, and we will have lost much of what made us great.

Republicans are destroying America.




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PUT TOOTHPASTE ON IT!

An article I saw the other evening detailed a craze for rubbing breasts with toothpaste in an effort to increase their size. Which I had never heard about, and consider the most nonsensical thing to cross my eyes this month.
Toothpaste. On mammary glands.
Fresh and minty.

In addition to toothpaste, women have been known to rub avocados on their chest -- possibly because of the suggestive shape of that fruit, as well as the smooth luscious texture, although it's not a recommended way to make guacamole -- cooking oil (um, okay), chocolate, and peanut butter.

[Suggestion: go with chunky. It's texturally more interesting.]


Obviously I am conflicted about this. On the one hand I want to mercilessly make fun of the goofiness, but I also realize that the typical male breast size fetish is responsible for it. My gender is to blame.

And anything I say about breasts may be held against me.
Some readers will be offended.



So okay. If you want to scrub your breasts with toothpaste, even though it's probably eventually going to cause a nasty skin rash, go ahead.
I support whatever you wish to do with them.

Every day I am in the same rooms as breasts, at various times and in various places, but they are all fully covered, and there is no whiff of toothpaste from any of those people, to my knowledge.
At least not that I've ever noticed.

But I'll now keep a nostril cocked for precisely that.





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DATING MYSELF

One of the slang terms I've seen recently is C9. Which is a shorter way of writing 師奶 ('si naai'), meaning "housewife". Though not necessarily in a completely positive way. For instance, one could say that the entire collective of C9 should avoid downtown areas during lunch hour, because they jam up Walgreens, insta-teller machines, and the post office.
And, often, take up too much time then.

The term is one that heretofore I 5G ge.
[我唔知嘅]

As you would guess, these are text message abbreviations. Because I don't own a cellphone they did not cross my horizon till very recently. For the exact same reason, Trump's frantic emergency text message about space aliens breaching the wall and flooding across the border didn't reach me.

I guess I was one of the lucky few.
I did not panic.

All the rest of you ran around screaming, right?
And I can well understand that.


I was at work at the time, and my panic was entirely due to a glitch in the computers during a teleconference.


Some friends have urged me to get a cellphone, because texting is just so much easier, and in case of emergencies these things are incredibly useful.
And what if I ever start dating again? I'll need a cellphone then!

Firstly, the very last time I tried insta-messaging (on a computer) it was an interruptive pain in the gand, and secondly, my car will never blow a tire on the freeway in Bat Country, somewhere around Barstow.
I have a landline, and no vehicle.

And "dating again"?
Not very likely.

I mean, I am not at all opposed to the concept, and eternally positive about life, but this is San Francisco in the twenty first century.
I date from the twentieth.


Heck, I voted against the first Bush.
That nearly makes me antique.





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BY THE CINNABAR ROOTS

One of the more useful drugs in the Chinese herbal pharmacopoeia is radix salvia miltiorrhiza (danshen), which is known as red sage in English.
The preparation that's most commonly available is danshen pian (丹参片 "cinnabar root tablet"), which benefits circulatory function and ameliorates cardiovascular problems. It is also prescribed for ischemia.

A cautionary note, however: even if the dosage is standard, there may be variable strength from batch to batch. Which could be problematic.


丹參片
[Daansaam pin]

It is recommended that you consult a qualified Chinese doctor of herbal medicine, preferably one with years of experience dealing with older people, rather than one who specializes in bruises, bumps, and contusions.

And no, I shall not recommend any one in Chinatown, because of liability issues with doing that. But there are a few.


Read more about danshen here:
https://www.drugs.com/npp/danshen.html


And do please note that danshen may interfere with other medicines, causing complications that your relatives should find educational.
So know what the heck you are doing before you do it.


The good news is that it also has some benefits in reducing cholesterol, may help against some cancers, and the toxic dosage is difficult to achieve. And again, see both the cautionary note about batch strength, as well as the suggestion that a Chinese doctor of herbal medicine be involved.



AFTERWORD

Last week Jenny poured the bookseller and myself two glasses each of a hot herbal decoction made of red dates, apricot kernels, and wolfberry (紅棗、杏仁、枸杞). If you experiment, go by taste; the red dates should contribute most of the flavour, and it should be relatively mild and weak enough that you can drink multiple glasses throughout the evening.
It is gently tonifying and helps clear toxins.
Good for anemia and circulation.
Plus other things.


紅棗 ('hong jou'): Chinese dried red dates.
杏仁 ('hang yan'): Apricot kernels.
枸杞 ('gou geui'): Wolfberry (Lycium chinense).

All three can be found at dried goods and herb stores.
And they are often used in old grannie soups.
Which children generally dislike.




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LETTER BOX.
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TURN RIGHT WHEN YOU SEE THE CHECKERBOARD

If you keep going in this direction, you will head straight into the side of a mountain. Which is ill-advised. Steep turn, descend, and line up for thirteen ("IGS one three"). The checkerboard was actually on the slope which the plane faced, the passengers might not see it, because of the angle, but the pilot started the sharp right turn and descent as soon as it became visible.
If the runway was overshot, the plane would end up in the water.

Remarkably, it was one of the busiest airports in the world.


香港啟德機場
[Heung Gong Kai Tak Kei Cheung]

You could see the checker board from street level in various places, and to give you an idea of the tightness of things, imagine yourself on a school sports field, seeing the marker on the hill, and hearing a plane every five minutes or so very low overhead. The airport is closed now, and the checkerboard's white and red is fading.

The runway that gave people heart attacks was built in 1958, and de-activated in 1998. The new airport at Chek Lap Kok (赤鱲角) to the west on the other side of Kowloon is bigger, brighter, and far less exciting.

Well, except for that famous video of the woman having a meltdown ...

Just for the heck of it, here it is.


BUT THE PLANE HASN'T LEFT YET!!!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xbVw7entkxg


Basically, "damn it all, what a cock-up, the plane hasn't left yet, so how come they closed the gate already, what does whatever have to do with me, you are all stupid, why didn't you do something?!?" It's very fraught.
激死啊！

Some male is overheard saying "don't get so excited".
Which is almost always rather good advice.
Not really effective, though.


The first part of the approach brought you straight across Kowloon, then you'd be leaning heavily right as the plane made the turn north of Hung Hom (紅磡), after which you'd level out almost directly over the housing at Chun Seen Mei Chuen (真善美村) and descend rapidly. If you looked to the left you'd see the apartment buildings of Kwun Tong (觀塘) at eye-level.
A bump as you touched ground, then sharp braking.

Worse in bad weather.


Billboards everywhere, and neon. Advertisements for Marlboro cigarettes, Lee Kum Kee oyster sauce, Double Happiness ...




The jets are flying overhead right now in San Francisco, because it is Fleet Week and the navy is in town. They aren't quite as annoying as several years ago when I worked at an office on Bush Street. But still, loud.




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