The mom march in Portland started at nine PM. So far it is peaceful. Huge crowd of mature adults. There is a lot of grey hair visible.
The wall of moms and dads have arrived at the Federal Courthouse.
9:28 PM.
Just how close is the relationship between Chad wolf and Erik Prince?
Just noticed a San Franciscan whom I know from Encore on the feed elsewhere. She questions some bullshit from Acting Deputy Secretary Ken Cuccinelli.
The mayor speaks. That means the teargas won't come for a while.
10:10 PM.
Mayor ted Wheeler pledged to stay during tonight's protest. This could prove interesting if the Federales unleash the stuff that they used last night.
Ted Wheeler and Black protest leaders on the Justice Center steps.
10:24 PM.
Rumours that the "Federales" are Blackhawk mercenaries.
Sounds like teargas grenades being fired.
10:42 PM.
Fire started. Federales warn crowd.
10:51 PM.
Time for the snackvan.
10:52 PM.
Fires between the fence and the JC.
11:04 PM.
Flash bangs and smoke everywhere.
11:22 PM.
And the teargas has started.
11:24 PM
Federales fired teargas directly at a reporter.
Mayor Ted Wheeler gassed by the Federales. Confirmed. Several sources. Feds now declare a riot.
11:37 PM.
Federales getting ready to engage crowd. Protestors have gotten through the fence.
Teargas and flashbangs, lots of smoke.
11:49 PM.
Mayor Ted Wheeler gassed again. Badly.
11:50 PM.
Imperial March playing while Federales fire blindly.
How ... appropriate.
11:59 PM.
Long Range Acoustic Device (LRAD).
Massive volleys at the JC. Federales shooting flashbangs, teargas, and rubber bullets.
Reports of an armed provocateur.
12:07 AM
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Thursday, July 23, 2020
Wednesday, July 22, 2020
THE REAL AMERICA
Obviously our government ordered the consulate in Houston to close for their own safety, seeing as Texas is filled with racist rightwing rednecks who might create an international incident. But that highlights, in a way, why the vehicle with Texan plates parked outside on my street should be either torched or smashed. As well as any suspicious unmarked white vans that might be slowly cruising through the neighborhood.
Because unmarked white vans, as everyone knows, spread diseases, teargas, flashbangs, and heavily armed and camouflaged asshats.
And that Texan car brought a carpetbagger.
Probably a criminal.
Last night I watched riot-police tactics in Portland for an hour, which was mostly harmless, cat-and-mouse, except that the cats were all wearing boogaloo clothing while horking up their hairballs.
No, nobody threw cans of Goya garbanzos.
Trump didn't come out with a bible.
The sad thing is that once you leave Portland, there's several hundred miles of KKK before you hit civilization again. Oregon was created expressly as a white people paradise perfect for Texans and today's Fox News viewers. They still wipe their asses with Sears Roebuck catalogue pages there.
Almost everything between the Oakland Hills and the East River is Oregonistan and Texas. Guns, trailerparks, Nascar, and Goya Foods.
Plus Waffle House, White Castle, and Chic-Fil-A.
Mat Gaetz, Mitch McConnell, Larry Hogan.
Rush Limbaugh, Tucker Carlson.
Or Indiana. Where everybody knows a Klansman, or is related to people who used to belong. During the late twenties, nearly a third of all "native born white men" in Indiana were part of the Klan, as well as most of the State Assembly and the governor, and most elected officials.
Nowadays, they solidly vote Republican there.
Pence hails from Indiana.
Q.E.D.
As a Dutch-American and a Californian, I don't have to like most of my "fellow Americans". The rot started when all those alcoholic religious deviants and criminal psychopaths came over from the British Isles.
That, more than anything else, made syphilis a fact of life.
The reason why Charlie Manson, an immigrant from the Midwest and a Scientologist, spent most of his life in California, is because he was incarcerated here. Otherwise he could have run for office.
Somewhere else in the United States.
Children Of The Corn.
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Because unmarked white vans, as everyone knows, spread diseases, teargas, flashbangs, and heavily armed and camouflaged asshats.
And that Texan car brought a carpetbagger.
Probably a criminal.
Last night I watched riot-police tactics in Portland for an hour, which was mostly harmless, cat-and-mouse, except that the cats were all wearing boogaloo clothing while horking up their hairballs.
No, nobody threw cans of Goya garbanzos.
Trump didn't come out with a bible.
The sad thing is that once you leave Portland, there's several hundred miles of KKK before you hit civilization again. Oregon was created expressly as a white people paradise perfect for Texans and today's Fox News viewers. They still wipe their asses with Sears Roebuck catalogue pages there.
Almost everything between the Oakland Hills and the East River is Oregonistan and Texas. Guns, trailerparks, Nascar, and Goya Foods.
Plus Waffle House, White Castle, and Chic-Fil-A.
Mat Gaetz, Mitch McConnell, Larry Hogan.
Rush Limbaugh, Tucker Carlson.
Or Indiana. Where everybody knows a Klansman, or is related to people who used to belong. During the late twenties, nearly a third of all "native born white men" in Indiana were part of the Klan, as well as most of the State Assembly and the governor, and most elected officials.
Nowadays, they solidly vote Republican there.
Pence hails from Indiana.
Q.E.D.
As a Dutch-American and a Californian, I don't have to like most of my "fellow Americans". The rot started when all those alcoholic religious deviants and criminal psychopaths came over from the British Isles.
That, more than anything else, made syphilis a fact of life.
The reason why Charlie Manson, an immigrant from the Midwest and a Scientologist, spent most of his life in California, is because he was incarcerated here. Otherwise he could have run for office.
Somewhere else in the United States.
Children Of The Corn.
==========================================================================
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SIGNS OF NORMALCY
Statement overheard yesterday, from the apartment mate talking about a coworker: "the meatball had rolled off his spaghetti". Meaning that the person in question was insane. And she likened him to Constantine in Muppets Most Wanted. I'm not sure that's because he's a criminal, a Russian, likes to blow things up, or just greenish and slimey.
I've never met the man.
I will confess that now I am mildly curious. She works with a bunch of Chinese and Filipino Americans in one of the branches of city gubmint, and I'm wondering which dude it is. Probably the secret anti-vaxxer whom everyone hates. But many of them sound a bit nuts.
None of the Chinese I know are nuts. Not my apartment mate, nor my doctor and my cardiologist, not the stressed out office manager down at the clinic, nor the scowly and petite Toishanese nurse who misjudged my height (I am NOT five feet six inches, short person! Five eight or eight and a half!), nor the ladies in the pharmacy, nor the gynecologist from the mainland working in cardiac imaging -- a very capable woman indeed -- and, moving over to pastries and baked goods, none of the people who work at either of my favourite bakeries.
Well, Little White Nipple Guy IS off his rocker. But arguably he's not even Chinese, seeing as he can't speak a blessed word of his ancestral tongue and is mentally all-American impaired.
He's basically a spiritual redneck.
Claims he did Nascar.
I am extremely glad that Little White Nipple Guy does not live in my neighborhood, and himself never goes into Chinatown.
If he did, I would have to hide indoors.
Instead of enjoying walks.
With a pipe.
And decent tobacco.
About half of the people in this neighborhood are Chinese American, mostly Cantonese, though not all of those speak Cantonese. In addition to English, there are a few other village dialects, and the Indonesian ladies who live in the front apartment, though of Chinese ancestry, do not speak anything Chinese that I could understand. So it's English or Indonesian there.
An elderly Chinese couple two blocks over converse in Dutch.
Other than my apartment mate, who is a refined and sensible young lady eight years my junior, few of the locals have any problem with a pipe-smoking Dutchman wandering the streets. And I believe that is because in a proper version of the universe, such a thing is actually standard, normal, and acceptable, as they all understand. It's a sign of civilization!
It's only crazy-ass white folks who find it objectionable.
By the way, in case you were wondering, Mrs. Wong ("auntie with the pistachio icecream hued hat") walks better and further than she did at the beginning of "shelter-in-place". Now she does an additional six blocks in the morning, in addition to the tromp up and down the opposite side of the street. She's healthier, and more cheerful and vibrant.
She should live long and prosper.
I wish I could state the same about myself. Though I walked nearly forty blocks yesterday, the last pipe of the evening had me swearing up a blue streak under my breath while descending the stairs and heading up the street. My buggered right knee was all kinds of obscene Netherlandish terms, involving both the eliminative and reproductive functions.
As well as mediaeval diseases, and heretical characteristics.
It's a darn good thing I am the only person in this neighborhood with knowledge of fifteenth century Dutch.
Or the Burgundian period.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I've never met the man.
I will confess that now I am mildly curious. She works with a bunch of Chinese and Filipino Americans in one of the branches of city gubmint, and I'm wondering which dude it is. Probably the secret anti-vaxxer whom everyone hates. But many of them sound a bit nuts.
None of the Chinese I know are nuts. Not my apartment mate, nor my doctor and my cardiologist, not the stressed out office manager down at the clinic, nor the scowly and petite Toishanese nurse who misjudged my height (I am NOT five feet six inches, short person! Five eight or eight and a half!), nor the ladies in the pharmacy, nor the gynecologist from the mainland working in cardiac imaging -- a very capable woman indeed -- and, moving over to pastries and baked goods, none of the people who work at either of my favourite bakeries.
Well, Little White Nipple Guy IS off his rocker. But arguably he's not even Chinese, seeing as he can't speak a blessed word of his ancestral tongue and is mentally all-American impaired.
He's basically a spiritual redneck.
Claims he did Nascar.
I am extremely glad that Little White Nipple Guy does not live in my neighborhood, and himself never goes into Chinatown.
If he did, I would have to hide indoors.
Instead of enjoying walks.
With a pipe.
And decent tobacco.
About half of the people in this neighborhood are Chinese American, mostly Cantonese, though not all of those speak Cantonese. In addition to English, there are a few other village dialects, and the Indonesian ladies who live in the front apartment, though of Chinese ancestry, do not speak anything Chinese that I could understand. So it's English or Indonesian there.
An elderly Chinese couple two blocks over converse in Dutch.
Other than my apartment mate, who is a refined and sensible young lady eight years my junior, few of the locals have any problem with a pipe-smoking Dutchman wandering the streets. And I believe that is because in a proper version of the universe, such a thing is actually standard, normal, and acceptable, as they all understand. It's a sign of civilization!
It's only crazy-ass white folks who find it objectionable.
By the way, in case you were wondering, Mrs. Wong ("auntie with the pistachio icecream hued hat") walks better and further than she did at the beginning of "shelter-in-place". Now she does an additional six blocks in the morning, in addition to the tromp up and down the opposite side of the street. She's healthier, and more cheerful and vibrant.
She should live long and prosper.
I wish I could state the same about myself. Though I walked nearly forty blocks yesterday, the last pipe of the evening had me swearing up a blue streak under my breath while descending the stairs and heading up the street. My buggered right knee was all kinds of obscene Netherlandish terms, involving both the eliminative and reproductive functions.
As well as mediaeval diseases, and heretical characteristics.
It's a darn good thing I am the only person in this neighborhood with knowledge of fifteenth century Dutch.
Or the Burgundian period.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, July 21, 2020
PILGRIM IN CHINATOWN
Took the bus across the hill to Chinatown early today. Visited my bank (which used to be "Bank of Canton of California", 加州廣東銀行), headed over to hospital (東華醫院) for my yearly lung cancer screening as per the doctor's instructions, and went shopping. Vegetables (菜), dimsum (點心), coffee (咖啡精), and condiments (調料醬).
[CT Scan. Machine like a large electronic donut. Lie down, arms like so. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Three times. No brain activity by patient required. Okay, can do!]
Unlike many white Americans, Cantonese Americans almost universally wear a mask nowadays. Perhaps because they fully understand that it's a health precaution. I doubt that many of them think it's a serious imposition or reduces their freedom. They know there's an awful lot of shit you can pull masked, more even than before. Fewer limitations. Or maybe they're less inbred and stupid, unlike the Caucasian defectives elsewhere.
So it's a safer environment in Chinatown.
It is quite possible that my favourable opinion has a lot to do with being able to speak Cantonese, and therefore getting along with people and effectively communicating.
I also bought some lokto yinchai (駱駝煙仔while down there, go di tuen ge (嗰啲短嘅). Mou leui cheui (冇濾嘴). And, keeping in mind that just moments before I planned to light one up the last time I was on Waverly, the pilgrim had approached, desperate for yin, I abstained entirely till I was back home. It's not that I begrudge him the pleasure, but I do not want him to think me an unfailing source. For two or three years, every Tuesday evening he would cadge a cigarillo off me, or two or three.
I hate being a reliable touch.
Cigarillos were an occasional indulgence, now it's the rare ciggie.
Especially after medical appointments.
Rebellion.
The pilgrim speaks fairly fluent Cantonese, Toishanese, and English, in addition to his native Hokkien and Mandarin. He's smart, likable, and completely unemployable. And not being a good old boy he can't even run for office. He does odd jobs, when he works.
Anyhow, it's early afternoon, I'm home now. I've had lunch, and am enjoying a cup of coffee and a pipeful (red Virginia, a little blonde, touch of Perique). My apartment mate (the only Cantonese person living here) is at the office, her door is closed and the windows are open.
So I can smoke without any fear of someone yelling at me about damned kwailos (臭死鬼佬) and their horrid reeks. The smell will have dissipated by the time she returns.
That's something I'd rather have done to me at the hospital.
By the sparkling firecrackers in the pharmacy.
Or the frowny little nurse downstairs.
阿嘜生，戒煙，臭氣燻天!
"Ah sorry, no understand."
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[CT Scan. Machine like a large electronic donut. Lie down, arms like so. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Three times. No brain activity by patient required. Okay, can do!]
Unlike many white Americans, Cantonese Americans almost universally wear a mask nowadays. Perhaps because they fully understand that it's a health precaution. I doubt that many of them think it's a serious imposition or reduces their freedom. They know there's an awful lot of shit you can pull masked, more even than before. Fewer limitations. Or maybe they're less inbred and stupid, unlike the Caucasian defectives elsewhere.
So it's a safer environment in Chinatown.
It is quite possible that my favourable opinion has a lot to do with being able to speak Cantonese, and therefore getting along with people and effectively communicating.
I also bought some lokto yinchai (駱駝煙仔while down there, go di tuen ge (嗰啲短嘅). Mou leui cheui (冇濾嘴). And, keeping in mind that just moments before I planned to light one up the last time I was on Waverly, the pilgrim had approached, desperate for yin, I abstained entirely till I was back home. It's not that I begrudge him the pleasure, but I do not want him to think me an unfailing source. For two or three years, every Tuesday evening he would cadge a cigarillo off me, or two or three.
I hate being a reliable touch.
Cigarillos were an occasional indulgence, now it's the rare ciggie.
Especially after medical appointments.
Rebellion.
駱駝牌，冇濾嘴
該死的，它很臭
The pilgrim speaks fairly fluent Cantonese, Toishanese, and English, in addition to his native Hokkien and Mandarin. He's smart, likable, and completely unemployable. And not being a good old boy he can't even run for office. He does odd jobs, when he works.
真好香啊。
Anyhow, it's early afternoon, I'm home now. I've had lunch, and am enjoying a cup of coffee and a pipeful (red Virginia, a little blonde, touch of Perique). My apartment mate (the only Cantonese person living here) is at the office, her door is closed and the windows are open.
So I can smoke without any fear of someone yelling at me about damned kwailos (臭死鬼佬) and their horrid reeks. The smell will have dissipated by the time she returns.
That's something I'd rather have done to me at the hospital.
By the sparkling firecrackers in the pharmacy.
Or the frowny little nurse downstairs.
阿嘜生，戒煙，臭氣燻天!
"Ah sorry, no understand."
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FOR OUR RELIGIOUS BRETHREN
I don't know about you, but one of the most memorable and beloved passages in the New Testament, and one that has always deeply resonated for me, is the parable of Jesus And The Armalites.
It's so spiritually evocative.
Grace Baptist Church in Troy drew protesters Sunday morning with its flyers to “win a free AR-15”
"Daarom rommelt mijn ingewand over Moab als een harp, en mijn binnenste over Kir-heres." --- Killiaen Van Renselaer, 16:11.
"Suffer unto me the inbred trailer park dwellers, long suffering, and yearning to breathe free, for theirs indeed is the kingdom of heaven.
Verily, with their weapons and their piety."
Because that's what American Christianity, in its Fundamental Protestant phase, is all about, isn't it? Slaughtering Jews, idolaters, and members of the Catholic Church. Or at least providing a reasonable defense in case they threaten your beer and girlie mag lifestyle.
Plus your pickup truck.
It's not the first time the graceful Baptists have honoured the Lord by handing out murder weapons; they did it in 2017 and 2014 also.
And I for one welcome their efforts to rid their community of peaceful resistance to their religion. It's high time that the Jews, Idolaters, and members of the Catholic Church learn to drive tanks and operate shoulder-launched grenades. In Troy, New York.
If Kiliaen Van Rensselaer were alive today, he would assuredly encourage them to do so.
There is an obligation to sack Troy, in every generation.
It's almost biblical.
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It's so spiritually evocative.
Grace Baptist Church in Troy drew protesters Sunday morning with its flyers to “win a free AR-15”
"Daarom rommelt mijn ingewand over Moab als een harp, en mijn binnenste over Kir-heres." --- Killiaen Van Renselaer, 16:11.
"Suffer unto me the inbred trailer park dwellers, long suffering, and yearning to breathe free, for theirs indeed is the kingdom of heaven.
Verily, with their weapons and their piety."
Because that's what American Christianity, in its Fundamental Protestant phase, is all about, isn't it? Slaughtering Jews, idolaters, and members of the Catholic Church. Or at least providing a reasonable defense in case they threaten your beer and girlie mag lifestyle.
Plus your pickup truck.
It's not the first time the graceful Baptists have honoured the Lord by handing out murder weapons; they did it in 2017 and 2014 also.
And I for one welcome their efforts to rid their community of peaceful resistance to their religion. It's high time that the Jews, Idolaters, and members of the Catholic Church learn to drive tanks and operate shoulder-launched grenades. In Troy, New York.
If Kiliaen Van Rensselaer were alive today, he would assuredly encourage them to do so.
There is an obligation to sack Troy, in every generation.
It's almost biblical.
==========================================================================
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Monday, July 20, 2020
DOCTORS AND PILOTS
A few years ago I was enjoying a cocktail at the Occidental. It was a lovely summer evening, the door and the window were open, and I sat at the table near the window with my beverage and pipe. Then soon noticed that the briar had been ghosted by PS Very Cherry, with which I had experimented a few days earlier, to see what perverts like, and the partner on shift that evening came bustling out from behind the bar determined to find out which sexual degenerate was smoking the flavoured cigar in a place devoted to austere appreciation of fine tobacco products. Dammit, it had to stop!
When he passed by again, I had put my pipe down.
Told him that it was the vapesters outside.
Young profligates.
The Occidental is a cigar bar in the downtown; the austere appreciation of cigars must include thoughts of the warm plump thighs of Cuban women; Stokkebye Very Cherry is a relatively clean-burning aromatic pipe tobacco which will influence the next few bowls smoked in that pipe but be gone fairly soon if not hot-boxxed; the pipe is clean now, and normally I smoke only Virginia and Perique blends as indeed I did that evening.
Fortunately I had another pipe with me.
This was during the period that on alternate Sundays I would light up an aromatic just to see the expression on my coworker Hector's face when he realized what I was doing. As a severe puritan, he's right up there with the partner at the Oxxy. Who knows that I too disapprove of aromatics and normally never touch 'em.
There were also a few times when I smoked the Whore of Babylon.
[Whores are mentioned a huge number of times in the Bible, but the Whore of Babylon is specifically from the New Testament, book of Revelation, chapter 17, verses 1 through 6: "And there came one of the seven angels which had the seven vials, and talked with me, saying unto me, Come hither; I will shew unto thee the judgment of the great whore that sitteth upon many waters: With whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication, and the inhabitants of the earth have been made drunk with the wine of her fornication. So he carried me away in the spirit into the wilderness: and I saw a woman sit upon a scarlet coloured beast, full of names of blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns. And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colour, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication: And upon her forehead was a name written: mystery, Babylon the Great, mother of harlots and abominations of the earth. And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus".]
Which is also known as "Molto Dolce".
It's a very popular tobacco.
Sutliff spaghnum.
It's still made, but no longer available locally, because of several municipal ordinances forbidding flavoured tobacco products in order to protect the children, who would otherwise be mobbing tobacconists for this fine product which reeks appetizingly of vanilla, caramel, honey, a hint of chocolate, and an underlying fixative aroma vaguely reminiscent of coconut essence.
Plus embalming fluid and petrochemical by-products.
Which appeal to young people.
As is well-known.
I haven't stuffed it into a pipe in several years. The last time, it left my mouth feeling like a smoldering ruin, like something had crawled in there and died a violent death, festering, like a plague-zone with zombies.
Couldn't smoke at all for the rest of the day.
My doctor would've approved.
Delightful.
Molto Dolce is NOT a pipe tobacco which my father would've tolerated ("good tobacco does not smell like a French cathouse"), and both of my grandfathers would have likely sneered at it. One grandfather was a World War One pilot who passed away several years before I was born, when such heavy aromatics had still not been invented, and the other one was an army surgeon and doctors either smoked Camel nonfilters ("more doctors smoke Camels than any other cigarette") or Lucky Strikes (20,679 physicians recommend 'Luckies').
Molto Dolce smells for all the world like Hugh Hefner.
It's perfect for pissing off Hector. Made his fine Nicaraguan stogie taste like burning garbage, apparently. He withdrew to the far end of the room glowering and muttering. Priceless.
Many of the aromatics I have sampled were enjoyed (if that's the right word) on days that I worked with him. All of the various Sutliff aros, several Peterson mixtures, and a few other very odd things.
The lovely Peterson pipe pictured above does not whiff of perversion even in the slightest. Smoked it over the weekend. When people remark that they love the smell of a pipe, it reminds them of their father, what they're actually saying is "why don't you come over to the dark side, big boy".
And suggesting that their relatives were inbred.
My father (a WWII bomber pilot) for many years smoked a mixture made by John's Pipe Shop in Los Angeles, and gradually gave up the pipe after we moved to the Netherlands. Except if I had a tin of Balkan Sobranie lying around after tea time or dinner. Especially on weekends.
He'd snag a bowl and recapture memories.
My doctor doesn't smoke.
He's a patch man.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
When he passed by again, I had put my pipe down.
Told him that it was the vapesters outside.
Young profligates.
The Occidental is a cigar bar in the downtown; the austere appreciation of cigars must include thoughts of the warm plump thighs of Cuban women; Stokkebye Very Cherry is a relatively clean-burning aromatic pipe tobacco which will influence the next few bowls smoked in that pipe but be gone fairly soon if not hot-boxxed; the pipe is clean now, and normally I smoke only Virginia and Perique blends as indeed I did that evening.
Fortunately I had another pipe with me.
This was during the period that on alternate Sundays I would light up an aromatic just to see the expression on my coworker Hector's face when he realized what I was doing. As a severe puritan, he's right up there with the partner at the Oxxy. Who knows that I too disapprove of aromatics and normally never touch 'em.
No longer smells like urinal cake
There were also a few times when I smoked the Whore of Babylon.
[Whores are mentioned a huge number of times in the Bible, but the Whore of Babylon is specifically from the New Testament, book of Revelation, chapter 17, verses 1 through 6: "And there came one of the seven angels which had the seven vials, and talked with me, saying unto me, Come hither; I will shew unto thee the judgment of the great whore that sitteth upon many waters: With whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication, and the inhabitants of the earth have been made drunk with the wine of her fornication. So he carried me away in the spirit into the wilderness: and I saw a woman sit upon a scarlet coloured beast, full of names of blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns. And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colour, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication: And upon her forehead was a name written: mystery, Babylon the Great, mother of harlots and abominations of the earth. And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus".]
Which is also known as "Molto Dolce".
It's a very popular tobacco.
Sutliff spaghnum.
It's still made, but no longer available locally, because of several municipal ordinances forbidding flavoured tobacco products in order to protect the children, who would otherwise be mobbing tobacconists for this fine product which reeks appetizingly of vanilla, caramel, honey, a hint of chocolate, and an underlying fixative aroma vaguely reminiscent of coconut essence.
Plus embalming fluid and petrochemical by-products.
Which appeal to young people.
As is well-known.
I haven't stuffed it into a pipe in several years. The last time, it left my mouth feeling like a smoldering ruin, like something had crawled in there and died a violent death, festering, like a plague-zone with zombies.
Couldn't smoke at all for the rest of the day.
My doctor would've approved.
Delightful.
Molto Dolce is NOT a pipe tobacco which my father would've tolerated ("good tobacco does not smell like a French cathouse"), and both of my grandfathers would have likely sneered at it. One grandfather was a World War One pilot who passed away several years before I was born, when such heavy aromatics had still not been invented, and the other one was an army surgeon and doctors either smoked Camel nonfilters ("more doctors smoke Camels than any other cigarette") or Lucky Strikes (20,679 physicians recommend 'Luckies').
Molto Dolce smells for all the world like Hugh Hefner.
It's perfect for pissing off Hector. Made his fine Nicaraguan stogie taste like burning garbage, apparently. He withdrew to the far end of the room glowering and muttering. Priceless.
Many of the aromatics I have sampled were enjoyed (if that's the right word) on days that I worked with him. All of the various Sutliff aros, several Peterson mixtures, and a few other very odd things.
The lovely Peterson pipe pictured above does not whiff of perversion even in the slightest. Smoked it over the weekend. When people remark that they love the smell of a pipe, it reminds them of their father, what they're actually saying is "why don't you come over to the dark side, big boy".
And suggesting that their relatives were inbred.
My father (a WWII bomber pilot) for many years smoked a mixture made by John's Pipe Shop in Los Angeles, and gradually gave up the pipe after we moved to the Netherlands. Except if I had a tin of Balkan Sobranie lying around after tea time or dinner. Especially on weekends.
He'd snag a bowl and recapture memories.
My doctor doesn't smoke.
He's a patch man.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE CITY THAT READS
Apparently it's hot as blazes in some parts of the country. Where rational people don't ever go. As the news bits from there make absolutely clear. Kanye West held a blitheringly insane campaign rally, Trump's Federal Government sent to troops to Portland, and Colorado held a mask burning event -- no, not Ku Klux Klan masks or hoods, though those were indeed present -- and Nascar (a trailer trash sport) kicked off in Texas.
Here in SF we keep our cool.
It's called "fog".
It dissipates the further away you get from the city, as examples of raving insanity increase. Civilization only extends a few miles, then disappears until you start hitting the outskirts of Dublin, Ireland.
You folks are going to elect a president in November?
The mind boggles and the heart quails.
One person stands out like a throbbing thumb. Specifically, the gentleman a friend brought to my attention, who wrote the following on his Jswipe dating profile -- so probably an East Coaster -- which I am going to have to ask my friend why he's there, even though I have suspicions and do not really want to know.
Jswipe is a Jewish dating app, btw.
Quote:
"I practice yoga and eat plants, not into any of the traditional crap that most millenials are and not looking to get into it either. I recently stopped drinking to focus on my yoga practice. To be honest I am not at all excited about the prospect of dating a Jewish woman, I would prefer to spend my time with a woman from an Asian culture. They are calm, quiet, and composed, not full of neurotic energy. Jewish women are loud and annoying and unattractive like my mother."
End quote.
See, this is why people like Woody Allen need psychotherapists for most of their lives. Issues. The pressure that a high temperature roaring city brought to bear on their fragile egos. The stress of dealing with their moms. The instinctive need to bend their bodies into pretzels.
Overworked digestive systems.
Takeaway: Yoga appeals to fetishists with overbearing mothers.
Vegetarians who have over-active imaginations.
And likely alcoholics.
You know, there are probably an extremely large number of Jewish women who are even more unexcited about the idea of dating you as you are of dating them. Probably dwarfed in number by all the women from Asian cultures who would think you're a total putz.
Next step for the nerd: Kabbalah.
It's mysterious and Oriental.
Om mane padme om.
Like, spiritual.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Here in SF we keep our cool.
It's called "fog".
It dissipates the further away you get from the city, as examples of raving insanity increase. Civilization only extends a few miles, then disappears until you start hitting the outskirts of Dublin, Ireland.
You folks are going to elect a president in November?
The mind boggles and the heart quails.
One person stands out like a throbbing thumb. Specifically, the gentleman a friend brought to my attention, who wrote the following on his Jswipe dating profile -- so probably an East Coaster -- which I am going to have to ask my friend why he's there, even though I have suspicions and do not really want to know.
Jswipe is a Jewish dating app, btw.
Quote:
"I practice yoga and eat plants, not into any of the traditional crap that most millenials are and not looking to get into it either. I recently stopped drinking to focus on my yoga practice. To be honest I am not at all excited about the prospect of dating a Jewish woman, I would prefer to spend my time with a woman from an Asian culture. They are calm, quiet, and composed, not full of neurotic energy. Jewish women are loud and annoying and unattractive like my mother."
End quote.
See, this is why people like Woody Allen need psychotherapists for most of their lives. Issues. The pressure that a high temperature roaring city brought to bear on their fragile egos. The stress of dealing with their moms. The instinctive need to bend their bodies into pretzels.
Overworked digestive systems.
Takeaway: Yoga appeals to fetishists with overbearing mothers.
Vegetarians who have over-active imaginations.
And likely alcoholics.
You know, there are probably an extremely large number of Jewish women who are even more unexcited about the idea of dating you as you are of dating them. Probably dwarfed in number by all the women from Asian cultures who would think you're a total putz.
Next step for the nerd: Kabbalah.
It's mysterious and Oriental.
Om mane padme om.
Like, spiritual.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, July 18, 2020
A TRULY CHRISTIAN ATTITUDE
On a micro-level, what everyone can do regarding rightwingers who refuse to mask themselves during the pandemic, is slice the bastards open from sternum to groin and let them bleed out. Not that I would necessarily recommend that. Though hunting them down and killing them late at night seems very attractive.
Many of them live in gated communities, by the way.
But, in Zen-monk fashion, I shall just be patient and let nature take its course. The mofos will die, and take their nearest and dearest with them. None of my nearest and dearest are idiots, but if yours are you have probably already cut-off communication with them. Of not, do so.
If they vote Republican, they are a public health hazard, and dangerous around children.
Fortunately, with shelter-in-place and the limitations imposed upon us by the Trump pandemic, I myself see far fewer rightwing hosebags than I used to, and if they all die as a direct result of stupidity, the world will be perfect.
It might take me a while to notice.
Honestly, I harbour no "christian" feelings for them. And if Trump and Barr continue their campaign against the United States, too much sh*t will be hitting the fan all at once for anyone to pay attention to the health and well-being of some people. But they are such festersome garbage that something is bound to happen.
I guarantee you, I will not have seen anything.
I just hope that Brian Kemp gets his.
And governor Ron De Santis.
As well as Chad wolf.
Cretins.
Thoughts and prayers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Many of them live in gated communities, by the way.
But, in Zen-monk fashion, I shall just be patient and let nature take its course. The mofos will die, and take their nearest and dearest with them. None of my nearest and dearest are idiots, but if yours are you have probably already cut-off communication with them. Of not, do so.
If they vote Republican, they are a public health hazard, and dangerous around children.
Fortunately, with shelter-in-place and the limitations imposed upon us by the Trump pandemic, I myself see far fewer rightwing hosebags than I used to, and if they all die as a direct result of stupidity, the world will be perfect.
It might take me a while to notice.
Honestly, I harbour no "christian" feelings for them. And if Trump and Barr continue their campaign against the United States, too much sh*t will be hitting the fan all at once for anyone to pay attention to the health and well-being of some people. But they are such festersome garbage that something is bound to happen.
I guarantee you, I will not have seen anything.
I just hope that Brian Kemp gets his.
And governor Ron De Santis.
As well as Chad wolf.
Cretins.
Thoughts and prayers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, July 17, 2020
A PESKY SKIN FLAP
The other day I posted a selfie on my Facebook page with the caption "dammit, there's a wattle!" Which was visible between the gold band of the pipe, the beard, and indiscreetly flobbeling just above the collar of the tee-shirt. Responses were supportive. My friends seem to believe that it's natural and to be expected.
Where did this alien growth come from? I did not used to have a wattle!
And I am displeased.
Time to massage the neck with lard, I guess.
Buckets of lard.
What no one commented on was the pointiness of my head. Which has not gotten any worse with age, although the contents of that cranium probably have. Or the neatness of my beard, which takes effort.
That, and the fact that no one was triggered by the fact that I was smoking lead me to believe that outside earthmom nature freak circles there is hope for this world. At least among my circle of friends. None of whom are climate change denying anti-vaxxine no-mask activists. Though one or two of them might be closet vegans, very discreet about their doubtfulness and failure as human beings.
Also visible are various ceramics, sample jars of pipe tobacco, doodads, and the large rump of a wayang figure.
Wherever Kyai Luro (Semar) is, he is the hero of the tale. As anyone would recognize. Because he knows more than anyone else.
And has been around since before existence.
But he doesn't always dominate.
Sometimes he hides himself.
As I wish my wattle would.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Where did this alien growth come from? I did not used to have a wattle!
And I am displeased.
Time to massage the neck with lard, I guess.
Buckets of lard.
What no one commented on was the pointiness of my head. Which has not gotten any worse with age, although the contents of that cranium probably have. Or the neatness of my beard, which takes effort.
That, and the fact that no one was triggered by the fact that I was smoking lead me to believe that outside earthmom nature freak circles there is hope for this world. At least among my circle of friends. None of whom are climate change denying anti-vaxxine no-mask activists. Though one or two of them might be closet vegans, very discreet about their doubtfulness and failure as human beings.
Also visible are various ceramics, sample jars of pipe tobacco, doodads, and the large rump of a wayang figure.
SEMAR THE DWARF
Wherever Kyai Luro (Semar) is, he is the hero of the tale. As anyone would recognize. Because he knows more than anyone else.
And has been around since before existence.
But he doesn't always dominate.
Sometimes he hides himself.
As I wish my wattle would.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, July 16, 2020
THE PROBLEM IS SCIENCE
If anyone was in any doubt about the overwhelming stupity and sheer evil that holds sway in this country, consider what came out of White House Press Secretary Kayleigh McEnany's dumb-ass mouth recently: "We can't let science keep us from sending Children to school."
I have no problem with Republicans and Fundamentalists dying in very large numbers because they were obedient to the cynical dictats of the Committee to Reelect the President. The problem is that the children who will be the disease vectors in this scheme will end up victims, if they survive.
Orphaned or with one or both parents sick, broke, and unable to work.
"We can't let science keep us from sending children to school."
I do NOT want the Republican and Fundamentalist idiots to become even more of a drain on the country than they already are.
Thursday July 16, 8:52 PM
3,574,371 confirmed cases in the US. 138,358 deaths.
It's hard to imagine anything quite so Jim Jonesian.
But here we are.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I have no problem with Republicans and Fundamentalists dying in very large numbers because they were obedient to the cynical dictats of the Committee to Reelect the President. The problem is that the children who will be the disease vectors in this scheme will end up victims, if they survive.
Orphaned or with one or both parents sick, broke, and unable to work.
"We can't let science keep us from sending children to school."
I do NOT want the Republican and Fundamentalist idiots to become even more of a drain on the country than they already are.
Thursday July 16, 8:52 PM
3,574,371 confirmed cases in the US. 138,358 deaths.
It's hard to imagine anything quite so Jim Jonesian.
But here we are.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PACKED FOR ADVENTURE
Right arm sore as heck, and in a queer mood. The first of two shots for the shingles vaccine in my shoulder started hurting last night, and interfered with sleeping. And I woke up several times. This is the direct result of a scheduled check-up at the clinic, and a doctor who knows what he's doing. Plus a nurse with keen needle skills, because in all honesty I barely felt it at the time.
It's the one-year anniversary of my ruptured appendix.
Which I should be celebrating, because I survived.
And I am. Pipeful of Virginia tobacco.
Last year in July I spent five days being grumpy and lethargic after surgery. No smoking, no urge to smoke. And one cannot smoke inside the hospital anyway. I think they're jealous.
One problem they have there is what to feed the patients, most of whom are Cantonese and under normal circumstances quite passionate about food. And I must commend them on their presentation of the lovely meals, for which I had no appetite. One nurse went beyond the call of duty to fetch me some hotsauce just to get me to eat. For which I am very grateful.
In no particular order, here are some of the things I had at the hospital:
Bupivacaine
Ciprofloxacin
Fentanyl
Iohexol
Lidocaine
Neostigmine
Metronidazole
Midazolam
Neostigmine
Glycopyrrolate
Etomidate
Ondansetron
Sodium Chloride solution
Potassium Chloride
Rocuronium
Docusate Sodium
Polyethylene Glycol Oral Powder
Vancomycin
Hartmann's Solution ("lactated ringers"), used as fluid and electrolyte replacement for patients with low blood volume or low blood pressure.
Plus Acetominophen, Acetominophen-Hydrocodone, Aspirin, Metoproplol Succinate ER, Atorvastatin, Losartan, Clopidogrel, .....
Insertions, incisions, venipunctures, tests, .....
Various procedures.
I rather wish that I had been awake the whole time, as it would have been both fascinating and educational.
A positive result is that I am not nearly as needle-phobic as I was.
One thing I've learned is to go to the emergency room before the appendix explodes, which is now somewhat useless information in my case, unless any other organs decide to follow suit, and to have a medical dictionary or encyclopedia in one's overnight bag.
For reading enjoyment.
Oh yeah, plus at least one pipe and suitable tobacco for an invalid.
"See, nurse, I'm getting better. Me and my intravenous baggy are just calmly sitting over here in the alleyway opposite the hospital, not bothering anyone with our smoke ... "
"No, don't call the orderly, I'm fine."
The day I got released, I disappeared for a while.
Time with a pipe was necessary.
Mental health.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It's the one-year anniversary of my ruptured appendix.
Which I should be celebrating, because I survived.
And I am. Pipeful of Virginia tobacco.
Last year in July I spent five days being grumpy and lethargic after surgery. No smoking, no urge to smoke. And one cannot smoke inside the hospital anyway. I think they're jealous.
One problem they have there is what to feed the patients, most of whom are Cantonese and under normal circumstances quite passionate about food. And I must commend them on their presentation of the lovely meals, for which I had no appetite. One nurse went beyond the call of duty to fetch me some hotsauce just to get me to eat. For which I am very grateful.
In no particular order, here are some of the things I had at the hospital:
Bupivacaine
Ciprofloxacin
Fentanyl
Iohexol
Lidocaine
Neostigmine
Metronidazole
Midazolam
Neostigmine
Glycopyrrolate
Etomidate
Ondansetron
Sodium Chloride solution
Potassium Chloride
Rocuronium
Docusate Sodium
Polyethylene Glycol Oral Powder
Vancomycin
Hartmann's Solution ("lactated ringers"), used as fluid and electrolyte replacement for patients with low blood volume or low blood pressure.
Plus Acetominophen, Acetominophen-Hydrocodone, Aspirin, Metoproplol Succinate ER, Atorvastatin, Losartan, Clopidogrel, .....
Insertions, incisions, venipunctures, tests, .....
Various procedures.
I rather wish that I had been awake the whole time, as it would have been both fascinating and educational.
A positive result is that I am not nearly as needle-phobic as I was.
One thing I've learned is to go to the emergency room before the appendix explodes, which is now somewhat useless information in my case, unless any other organs decide to follow suit, and to have a medical dictionary or encyclopedia in one's overnight bag.
For reading enjoyment.
Oh yeah, plus at least one pipe and suitable tobacco for an invalid.
"See, nurse, I'm getting better. Me and my intravenous baggy are just calmly sitting over here in the alleyway opposite the hospital, not bothering anyone with our smoke ... "
"No, don't call the orderly, I'm fine."
The day I got released, I disappeared for a while.
Time with a pipe was necessary.
Mental health.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SUCH LIMITATIONS
Yesterday I bought bittermelon and fuzzy gourd in Chinatown. Which, to the knowing mind, suggests pork. And the knowing mind is right in this case. The bittermelon was cooked with yellow curry paste, green chili paste, a little fish sauce, and meatballs, and made a lovely main meal of the day.
I have no idea what I shall do with the nice green fuzzy gourd.
Might need to go into C'town again for some roast pork.
[Bitter melon: 苦瓜 ('fu gwaa'), 涼瓜 ('leung gwaa'); momordica charantia. Fuzzy gourd: 毛瓜 ('mou gwaa'), 節瓜 ('jit gwaa'); benincasa hispida.
Roast pork: 燒肉 ('siu yiuk').]
Along with baby mustard stalk (油菜 'yau choi'), these are my favourite vegetables. And probably unavailable in most of the country.
My mother, as Anglo in her tastes as anybody, would disapprove.
I learned how not to cook from her.
During my mother's childhood, food was not meant to be enjoyed; it was fuel and building blocks, that you ate because not doing so was in some ways self indulgent and decadent. And people were used to that attitude, and considered it right and proper.
I don't think I could have lived then.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I have no idea what I shall do with the nice green fuzzy gourd.
Might need to go into C'town again for some roast pork.
[Bitter melon: 苦瓜 ('fu gwaa'), 涼瓜 ('leung gwaa'); momordica charantia. Fuzzy gourd: 毛瓜 ('mou gwaa'), 節瓜 ('jit gwaa'); benincasa hispida.
Roast pork: 燒肉 ('siu yiuk').]
Along with baby mustard stalk (油菜 'yau choi'), these are my favourite vegetables. And probably unavailable in most of the country.
My mother, as Anglo in her tastes as anybody, would disapprove.
I learned how not to cook from her.
During my mother's childhood, food was not meant to be enjoyed; it was fuel and building blocks, that you ate because not doing so was in some ways self indulgent and decadent. And people were used to that attitude, and considered it right and proper.
I don't think I could have lived then.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 15, 2020
CHINESE MASTERS OF BRIAR
Thanks to the internet there are now several Chinese pipe carvers whom I know. Not well, of course, given that they're on the mainland, but I've seen enough of their skill to value them highly. In the Chinese context, briar pipes belong to the scholar-literati world, along with calligraphy, seal-carving, the tea arts, classical music, and rarified collectables.
Keep that in mind, as it clarifies the extremely high degree of artistry and the practiced eye that leads to the following photos, which I lifted entirely without permission from their Facebook pages.
These briar pipes are all masterpieces.
And worthy of consideration
Chao Han-Qing (赵汉青)
Chen Ce (陈策)
Shan Xiong
Shi Pu
Liu ZhiJun
ShanLiang Xie
Gao Jie
Eagle Fang
Xu Hai
Cang Zhenming
Huang Jiaji (黄佳奇)
Xiaoyu Yan
Eagle Fang lives in Guangzhou, as does Shangliang Xie. Shi Pu lives in Beijing, so does Gao Jie. Chen Ce lives in Liaoning. Chao Han-Qing is a resident, I think, of Shantung. Or thereabouts.
Shu Hai is in Beijing. Cang Zhenming is in Baoding, a city south-west of the capital, which is as far away from Tianjin eastwards. Huang Jiaji lives up far north, near the gulf of Bohai.
Xiaoyu Yan is in Beijing.
Other than their beautiful pipes, which show refined sensibilities and classic aesthetics, there is not much I know about these gentlemen.
And there are probably many other great Chinese carvers whom I will in due course discover. I very likely cannot afford their pipes, but I can certainly admire what they do.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Keep that in mind, as it clarifies the extremely high degree of artistry and the practiced eye that leads to the following photos, which I lifted entirely without permission from their Facebook pages.
These briar pipes are all masterpieces.
And worthy of consideration
Chao Han-Qing (赵汉青)
Chen Ce (陈策)
Shan Xiong
Shi Pu
Liu ZhiJun
ShanLiang Xie
Gao Jie
Eagle Fang
Xu Hai
Cang Zhenming
Huang Jiaji (黄佳奇)
Xiaoyu Yan
Eagle Fang lives in Guangzhou, as does Shangliang Xie. Shi Pu lives in Beijing, so does Gao Jie. Chen Ce lives in Liaoning. Chao Han-Qing is a resident, I think, of Shantung. Or thereabouts.
Shu Hai is in Beijing. Cang Zhenming is in Baoding, a city south-west of the capital, which is as far away from Tianjin eastwards. Huang Jiaji lives up far north, near the gulf of Bohai.
Xiaoyu Yan is in Beijing.
Other than their beautiful pipes, which show refined sensibilities and classic aesthetics, there is not much I know about these gentlemen.
And there are probably many other great Chinese carvers whom I will in due course discover. I very likely cannot afford their pipes, but I can certainly admire what they do.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
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,...
