STRAYED MIND

At around one thirty in the morning the doorbell rang. So I put on my bathrobe, grabbed a stout stick, and went downstairs to investigate. A crazed homeless man was settling down in the lit portico of our apartment building, grunting and mumbling to himself, and enjoying a cup of coffee. As could be noted through the curtain of the window in the front door. I observed him discreetly for a few moments without making him being aware of my presence, then went back upstairs. It was raining fairly steadily, the foghorns were blowing, he was filthy and not dressed for the weather, and it was cold outside.
I was in pajamas and a bathrobe, not enthusiastic about either his presence there or the idea of chasing him out into the elements, and not keen for a ruckus in the middle of the night.

It's a San Francisco kind of thing.

And, of course, filth and rain.


Pointless to call the police. From their point of view, if he was not killing anyone, and tucked away out of trouble, why shift him? Problem not so much solved as shelved.


One is conscious of one's vulnarabilities when garbed in nothing but jammmies, bathrobe, and house slippers. Or at least aware that one may not be optimumly dressed to deal with the madness beyond the door. Where things are cold, wet, and stark raving bonkers. There's an unpredictability there which at one thirty in the morning one might not want to face.

And, for some reason, quite inexplicably, one remembers purchasing a lovely casket of Peaty Kentucky -- a limited edition product from Scandinavian Tobacco which one has had the good fortune to sample at work because there was an opened container -- but one doesn't know where the devil one put it. It obsesses the mind; logically it would be somewhere within reach, a lower shelf perhaps. That rusty orange of the lacquered container, stark black lettering, it should be clearly visible. Even amidst the clutter.
Where the devil could it be?

One will simply have to buy a second exemplar.
To also remain unopened for years.
And gloated over.



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THE PERFECT ROMANTIC DINNER FOR ONE

Walking home from the bus I passed a bar with outdoor dining. Romantic couples, enjoying quiet time together. Fifteen of them. Thirty people. In the rain. During a pandemic.
Love is a many splendoured thing. Soggy and pre-pneumonic, too.
Kudos, young lovers. You are all nuts.

Obviously I walked on the other side of the street.

When I got home I fixed myself some fatty fried pork with yauchoi, chilipaste, and yellow curry. Over noodles. I did not need to light candles to feel the passion. My apartment mate had some sardines while cruising news on the internet. And remonstrating with the turkey vulture.

Fortunately she's gotten over Wheelie Boy, and the turkey vulture doesn't have a 'special person'. So in this household at least we're not nuts. Cynical, perhaps. Total Asperger or on the spectrum oh boy, definitely. Meshugge, no.


Sanity is also a many splendoured thing. All those soggy love-struck neurotypicals out there should try it sometime. They'd find it refreshingly warm and dry.


I had spent all day cleaning pipes and buffing stems. So it was productive. Also smoked a pipe a few times, experimenting for one bowl with Stokkebye's latest, Peaty Kentucky, which was quite pleasant, and qua appearance reminiscent of Samuel Gawith's Cabbies Mixture.
The taste is gentler. It goes very well with tea.

Most of the day was merely overcast.
It started raining after lunch.
A good day to be inside.

TOBACCO INDEX


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THE NECESSARY

It's like nougat, only lighter and airier. No, I have no idea what it might be called in English. The label reads 雪の酥 (possibly yuki no so; snow flakinesses), and it's a type of chewy easy-eating candy with an interesting texture. Three varieties: mango, peach, and dried cranberry-yoghurt. If I brought them to work I'd probably end up big as a house. Same reason I don't bring cayenne cheese poufs to work.

During the middle of the day, between pipe two and pipe three, I easily go for flavour overload. The taste buds are tingling, I'm high as a kite on coffee and tea, and likely to make impulsive mouth decisions. Sorry Milton, no cake for you, I ate it all.

Given that I don't eat breakfast, and have lunch late in the day, three pipes between wake-up coffee and first food is not hard. Especially when there no donuts or cookies lying around.

Two cups of strong coffee, then three cups of tea. That is the way, pilgrim.
It's like leaving the knife in the box with the king cake.
So that it's easy to have another piece.


One of the eternal mysteries of the Orient is why the grocery stores I go to in Chinatown have such a scrumptious selection of Japanese snacky things. Are they ALL like that? Or do I only patronize the ones that are? A happy accident?


Meltyblend strawberry chocolates. So deep. So profound! I'm sure wise men and philosophers all over East Asia are contemplatively getting fat on these.

[How about honey loquat candy'? Soothing and refreshing!]

The snacky things, along with chu hou paste (柱侯醬), hot bean sauce (辣豆瓣醬), and other supplies I regularly purchase in C'town, are making the pandemic a lot more bearable.
Plus of course 是拉差香甜辣椒醬。 It's essential.




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IT'S BENT

For someone who spent most of his childhood and subsequent adolescent years in the Netherlands, a dish that resonates is nasi goreng; rice fried with a little onion etcetera, some meaty or fishy bits, a little curry spice, plus a fried egg. With sambal (chili paste) on the side.
And, if their environment was strongly slanted toward Indonesian Dutch (which a large number of my father's colleagues and many of my classmates were), bittermelon is also one of those cherished food memories. Dinner recently covered all of that ground.
Yes, I prepared it myself. It may surprise some of my readers that a man can cook, especially of he is Caucasian. My gender and my type are not particularly known for that skill.
It's much worse if we're English women, which I'm not.
Still, uncle Roger would have kvetched.
Just for forms sake.

While I ate, my apartment mate was reading the news on the internet. She's not as murderous anent our traitorous Republican fellow Americans (damn them all may they rot) as I am, but her work does not bring her into daily contact with them. Familiarity does indeed breed contempt.


After dinner, I went for a little walk with a trusted friend.

Into the mouth of that friend I had stuffed some Virginia tobacco with just a hint of Perique. Naturally I avoided Polk Street, where outside dining and cocktails are once again thriving, which means we're only two weeks or so away from another lockdown.
Unlike normal people, I do not need frequent social contact.
And cocktails are not a part of my life.
A nice pipefull of tobacco is.
Solitarily.

[Enjoying a pipe has to be a solitary thing, of course, because most San Franciscans tolerate marijuana infinitely more than tobacco, which reminds them of their zombie great grand dad whom they didn't bury for several years because they wished to spend the money on stressed jeans and a brand new playstation instead. Naturally. He eventually wandered away and was found half-eaten by someone's pet dog or chihuahua.]


The combination of spiced food, that last cup of coffee before going to bed, the smoke, and my bloodpressure medication inevitably causes vivid dreams, something that has been fairly common for two years now. Which are interesting, as they tell me what the heck is going on the sewer of my subconscious. I dreamed that while I was out at Walgreens picking up a bag of cayenne cheesy poofs, my apartment mate came home, and discovered a fully clothed woman dozing in my bed, with one of the Totoro who also inhabit that space. Both of them proceeded to talk to each other by voicing for stuffed animals. My apartment mate often does so, as it is safer and easier to speak with the voice and character of another creature.
Two such people in the same room would be a monumental rarity.

A contributing factor may have been the new tee-shirt which I wore to bed. Which features one of the latest Sanrio ideas. Aggretsuko. A red panda office worker with anger issues who finds release by doing death metal karaoke in the evening after drinking too many beers.
Yeah, I can see myself doing that. If I were female.
I'd still smoke a pipe, however.

I do not normally have fully clothed women in my bed. Any women. Not that I don't know any women who might need a nap, but my bed is a frightful mess. Stuffed animals, a box of pipes, and an embankment of books. I've been using it as an annex library or office for years.
Jimmy Hoffa might be underneath all that stuff.
Nobody will look for him there.


There are also several tins of pipe tobacco in it.
That would scare away many women.

TOBACCO INDEX


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YANKEE STAY HOME

Sausage, greens, chili paste, and rice. A simple meal, enlivened by reading about St. Louis, Missouri, a city which ranks up there as one of the all-time shithole places. And I'm using President Trump's term, which he made famous and sanctioned. St. Louis has one of the highest crime rates in the United States, and qualifies as a murderous swamp.
Actually, all of Missouri is a shithole.

Obviously not a place to visit. Along with Texas and Florida.

Actually, much of the country.


They talk smack about us, we talk smack about them.


Corn fields, cow shit, beans, potatoes, and onions.


It's all deliverance country between Alcatraz and the Atlantic. With Minnesota Hot Dish and the Texas State Fair (an infinite variety of fried fatty garbage on sticks) as "cuisine".


I have reason to believe that most of this country winks at cannibalism.




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ONE DAY BEFORE A BEEFY YEAR

My apartment mate has had both covid shots as of yesterday afternoon, reason being that working in a health office she and her coworkers were higher-up the priority totem pole. She's nearly nine years younger than myself, but I am overjoyed that that's one less thing I have to worry about. That means that half of this household is safer than before. Well, excluding the stuffed creatures, but I doubt that they stood any danger, seeing as they don't leave the building. Can't reach the doorknobs.

Of course I still have no idea when my turn will come. But seeing as I'm rather antisocial, wear a mask, and am more than willing to beat people who come to close with a walking stick, I am not particularly worried.

Oh, and I'm a smoker. So people avoid me anyhow.

Precautionarily, she is staying home today. She took a day off work in case she went into convulsions, started foaming at the mouth, or transformed into a werewolf. And, seeing as she's Chinese, and Chinese New Year is coming up (tomorrow), she will engage in a bit of housecleaning. I myself, as a Dutch American who is comfortable with disorder, do not intend to do anything at all in that vein. Probably heading over to Tongyanfau to pick up some groceries and perhaps oranges, smoke a pipe in an alley, and stay out of trouble.

Because, as you no doubt understand, a pipesmoker is bound to get into trouble when there is a Chinese American person intent on apartmental cleanliness bustling about.
Fortunately my room is safe.

It's a day for a pipe that looks more "pipish" than many other pipes.
A Peterson System Standard. Filled with Virginia.
The weather is bearable.
Fun.


Rooting through storage boxes I found a pipe I haven't smoked in a long while.
It's one I associate with late nights in the Financial District.
Not in winter, of course. It gets cold there.


I've been told that perhaps I need Duct Tape as part of my first-aid kit.
It's probably better than Gorilla Glue I suppose.

TOBACCO INDEX


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HAPPY NEW YEAR; GUNG HAY FAT CHOI ETCETERA

Chinese New Year is in two days (February 12, 2021), and naturally I have something new to wear. Which is very important. No intention of doing any serious house cleaning, but I shall probably light some incense and have tangerines on the premises. Food-wise, it may be a bust. The grocery stores will be shut, and in any case because of the pandemic the usual bustle and variety will be limited. Still, some things need to be done.

A dish suitable for the beginning of the year.
Reprised from a while back.

滷蛋紅燒豬肉
LOU DAAN HONG SIU CHYU YIUK

Two pounds streaky pork belly (五花肉).
Two or three slices of ginger.
Two or three hard-boiled eggs.
Two or three whole star anise.
Two or three stalks green onion.
Quarter cup or more soy sauce.
Quarter cup or more sherry or rice wine.
Five or six soaked black mushrooms.
Two TBS sugar.

Peel the eggs but leave them whole.


Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Dump the pork into the pot, boil for about ten minutes, take it out and let it cool. When it's cold, cut it into chunks.
Heat some oil on the bottom of a stew pot or kastrol, add the ginger, stirfry briefly and add the green onion, which you have cut into one or two inch lengths and whacked slightly with the blunt edge of your cleaver. Remove all solids before they brown with a slotted spatula, add the pork, and gild it. When it has good browned edges, spoon off some of the grease that the heat had released, add the sherry or rice wine to sizzle, stir loose the crusty bits, then put everything else in the pot with water to generously cover.
Simmer on low heat for well over an hour.

This is a soppy version, with plenty of juices.
Good on top of rice or noodles.

The number of hard-boiled eggs can be increased if there are more people.
Increase soy sauce and sherry or rice wine plus water appropriately.
Equal parts soy and wine, one to two parts water.
Plus slight modifications else.


Other foods which are customary (which I shan't be preparing):

Dried Oysters With Black Moss 好事發財
February 1, 2011.

Sea Cucumber 海參
October 1, 2011



Plus a whole list of dishes (and New Year Greetings):

Lucky Wishes Lucky Foods
January 30, 2011.

Basically, I do not intend to do much for Chinese New Year. As long as the day is fairly pleasant, the living quarters comfortable, and the food is good, it's all right.


Tangerines. Or oranges. And new clothes to start the year.
Maybe fish (for surplus: 餘 sounds the same as 魚).
No swearing, no arguments.
Peace.



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DACHSHUNDS

Years ago I wrote an essay that was more like a rant than a serious view expressed cogently. Which, for folks just tuning in, is something that happens here rather a lot. Because this blog is a soap box, and I need to express my sanity somehow. In it I lauded a particular kind of canine, because I am an animal person. I like furballs.

Dogs were not the subject of the post.
But they took over.

WOOF!

I've been a bachelor for several years now. The alternative might be worse, but I'm not striving to change. Life with no dogs, cats, or significant other, is not so bad. There's tea, books, my pipe collection and tobaccos to smoke in it, and fascinating stuff on Wikipedia.
Plus dabbling in graphics, and reading disturbing news items.
In between I take walks, work a few days each week, take care not to insult the people with whom I come in regular contact, and sleep.


You'll be glad to know I do not hang around in bars ogling loose men or women, take all of my medicines regularly, eat well though peculiarly, and like observing people, so I'm not some antiquated antisocial old fart.


And I get along well with animals. Other than food and head-rubbies, they're not demanding.

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QUANTUM SCALABLE NONSENSE

On social media, someone sent me a post which made some astounding claims. As it turns out, a medical saint in Florida has found a cure for covid, and is making it public for the good of humanity. It's ten thousand time better than steam inhalation, which also fights covid.


"Scalar energy originates from the sun and is a fundamental force in all of nature"

" ... a remote treatment process to administer the scalar energy reverse-phase angle harmonic of a pathogen, thereby causing that agent of infection to disassemble or fall apart."(1)

"Scalar energy operates at the quantum level and is capable of disassembling all types of pathogens, thus eliminating the causative agent of disease"(2)

"These energy bursts delivered anywhere in the world using “a scalar instrument,” are good for viral infections, headaches, herpes, sleep disorders, stress, arthritis, digestive problems, chronic fatigue and other health issues."(3)

1. What the heck, what is this gibberish?
2. Complete and utter bull pucky.
3. Oh sweet Jesus.


I have blocked that person, and reported the post. If I could, I would send him dead animals in the mail. I am sad that I do not have spare cadavers.



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ALL THAT GANDALF CRAP

There's always someone who wants to indulge in hobbit fantasies, but is averse to tobacco, because tobacco is evil. Or from the dark side, big business, non-natural, not organic, and generally speaking something that interferes with their pure natural yoga-filled lifestyle.


"Are there any smoking mixtures without tobacco?"


Whenever I hear that question, I know that the person asking it owns a churchwarden pipe. And has read Lord Of The Rings. Religiously.

I'd like a bacon cheeseburger, hold the cheese, I'm lactose intolerant.

You could crumble up a clove cigarette to smoke.
Oh wait; that does include tobacco.
But it smells like hobbit.

Many "normal" LOTR fans bite the bullet, and find the mixture popularized by a now defunct tobacconist to smoke in their churchwarden pipes, often while playing Dungeons and Dragons, Magic: The Gathering, and role playing games.

Others enjoy(?) it while engaged in "intellectual" pursuits.
Honestly, I cannot say anything bad about it.
It remains deservedly popular.




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HERMITIC DISAPPROVAL

Two buildings over there are workmen using chainsaws, a woodchipper, and a leaf blower. Which, for a person who dislikes loud noises, is problematic. Through the blinds I could see that they weren't wearing masks. Which is not so problematic for me, but if they do that a lot it may have bad results for them. Always wear masks when handling power equipment, as microscopic particles can get into the breathing aparatus and lead to problems.
Asbestos, for instance. Wildfire soot. And volcanic ash.
Or Covid 19 during a pandemic.


In the short term that's probably not as bad as the woman who used Gorilla Glue on her hair in lieu of fixative (look it up on the internet; Gorilla Glue is permanent). Or the vast amount of sheer functional illiteracy that grips a large part of this country and leads, directly, to manifestations of goombaism like Marjorie Taylor Greene and Louie Gohmert.
Plus "influencers", antivaxxers, and other dickwads.

But it's still bad.

Naturally I am smoking a pipe to soothe myself.

But this post is by no means about pipes or tobacco. The concept of triggering anti-smokers, health freaks, puritanical types in Marin, Berkeley, and San Francisco, or other pustulent droogkloten, is far from my mind.


Instead, for some reason, I am remembering my mother's attitudes about food, which unintentionally may have shaped my own gustatory preferences. She disapproved of herring, mushrooms, organ meats, and desserts. Herring is soulfood, mushrooms are divine, organ meat can be prepared in various wonderful ways, and dessert is a main course. She was disturbed by chili peppers, and believed they were bad for the stomach and caused ulcers.
The refrigerator right now has a veritable smörgåsbord of hot sauces and sambals.

Remarkably, on the subjects of chocolate, cheese, and Genever (mild Dutch firewater) we'd agree. But there may have been an element of self-justificatory rationalization on her part.


She would have approved of my apartment mate, who though Chinese ('all "civilized" people are of solid Protestant ancestry') keeps the pantry well-stocked with various cheeses. Cheese was possibly the only redeeming quality that the French may have had. And chocolate, of course, is both Dutch and Belgian, so they can't be all bad. Genever is Dutch, and might possibly be the only reason their country still exists.

She herself did not realize that she had all the attitudes and petty praeconceptions of 1930s America rock-solid in her subconscious, still influencing her views no matter how educated, openminded, and liberal, she was. That was not uncommon among people who had lived through the Depression and the War. An element of her own mother was still there. And, for her father, a military officer, she and my dad were veering suspiciously close to being communists.

She disapproved of communism.

I experimented with communism during my early twenties, reading sh*tloads of Lenin, plus Marx, Mao, and other tiefdenker. There are flaws in their gedankenwelt. But one can clearly see how the ideology that the Russian revolutionaries created made the transformation to brutal dictatorships possible and in fact inevitable.


I realize that I too have a streak of severe Protestant disapprovalism in me. There are many things that I find appalling. Fruity cocktails. Aromatic (candy flavoured) pipe tobaccos. Wilful ignorance. Starbucks. Bacon and Kraft cheese on everything. Texas. Doctrinaire vegetarianism and veganism. Fundamentalist religion. Republicanism. Consumer culture. New Age religions. Tattoos. Sexual profligacy. Marijuana. Twizzlers and marshmallows.
Cruelty to animals. Defective imagination, mixed dancing.
And a lack of a sense of humour.


Plus chainsaws, woodchippers, and leaf blowers.



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COPING WITH THE WILD LIFE

Having fixed myself something odd to eat, inspired largely by Hong Kong, Singapore, and Lombardy -- blaming all of them, because they all had a daemonic part to play in the result, which was "edible" -- I wrested a prize possession back from the turkey vulture, and prepared for digestive tumult. Fortunately the meal was small, only snack-sized.
Curry and Sriracha pork scraps over egg noodles.
Sort of spaghetti carbonara but not.
With hard Dutch cheese.
Melted over.

I could also have blamed the United States, seeing as in some ways it resembled macaroni and cheese. But the "pasta" was infinitely better, as was the cheese, and I doubt that any of the vast interior Americans would have eaten it. Hong Kongers might; "this is chachanteng chow, gringo". Italians also; "what strange things you Americans do with food, you should learn how to cook sometime". And the Singaporeans; "it's not spicy enough, and the cheese is giving me gas, you should have added durian instead".

The turkey vulture had seized one of my pipes, a Charatan I've had since my school days, and claimed that as he had 'found' it, it was now his. Along with the magic bowl of quarters (laundry money) and my computer.

He didn't know what it was. Perhaps a club for harp seals.
Surely harp seals are small and meatball shaped?
Kind of like little girl hamsters.

I needed to talk a walk with a pipe and some Astley's No. 109 Flake. My stomach had to settle. After that, a cup of tea, and then off to bed. No, that's NOT for harp seals.
Which are only edible if you're Canadian.

Harp seals are probably fundamental to cuisine up there.
Just like processed cheese and bacon in the U.S.
Goes with or on everything.

Hot sauce on everything, and a pipe afterwards.
That's the ticket.

TOBACCO INDEX


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SOCKS ARE IMPORTANT, LATAKIA FIENDS!

In one of the pipe smoking groups on the internet, someone asked "what kind of socks do you prefer and suggest when smoking Latakia blends?" Fortunately the question was not directed at me personally. Honestly, I think socks are good. Especially in colder weather, when the temperature of the pavement is bone chilling. But the specifice type of sock is probably a matter of personal preference.

I am now imagining a Latakia blend smoker happily skipping barefoot across the frozen tundra, his pedal digits turning blue and falling off. La la la, carefree! Oh happy frozen day!

Not all pipesmokers are sane.


Obviously, underwear is just as important as socks. Especially out on the frozen tundra.

Last time I smoked the pipe pictured above was on Nob Hill on the day that the sky had turned orange. September 9, 2021. I'm pretty certain that I wore both socks and undies at the time. Absolutely positive, in fact. But I wasn't smoking a Latakia blend.

I am not a habitual smoker of Latakia blends.
So I normally wear socks and underwear.
I know a number of Latakia smokers.
Really, you don't want to know.



Naturally I looked at his profile. He's African American, ex-military, and a pilot, likes Pease's Blackpoint, and occasionally Dunhill Nightcap. He smokes mostly bent pipes. Lives in Ohio.
Ladies, he's single. What is wrong with you?



G. L. PEASE BLACKPOINT
Leathery campfire. Latakia, Turkish, Viginia, and Perique. A complex mixture. Creamy, earthy, full Oriental. This is a Balkan blend with Perique, and would go well with strong tea, sherry, or Scotch. As well as thick scratchy woolen socks in icy weather.

TOBACCO INDEX


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ANTIFA TEMPTRESSES FIGHTING QANON

Per my pillow guy Mike Lidell, the insurrection by rightwingers and other well-meaning Republican loonies was caused by agents of the other side. Quote: "The rioters were hypnotized by antifa temptresses who hid psychoactive drugs in their vaginas".

Which begs the question: dammit, why weren't we invited? Y'all threw an unChristian commie sex orgy, and none of us got to be there! What's the point in fighting fascist turdbrains if the ONE time there's drugged licentiousness we can't play?!!?


"The rioters were hypnotized by antifa temptresses who hid psychoactive drugs in their vaginas"


Mike "Pillows" Lidell, Lou Dobbs, and Marjorie Taylor Greene are fast becoming the braintrust and public face of the Republican Party, which proves that America's conservatives are not only completely off the rails, but have mutated into rabid poo-throwing monkeys.

No, don't blame Trump for this. Trump was merely the symptom.

They played that conceited shitbag for a sucker.


If anything, blame inbreeding, dysfunctionality, sexploitation, beer, and Bible Thumping. Which are the fundaments of society in both the Midwest and the South. As well as the Mountain States, and Idaho, where Mormons rustle potatoes. Plus Alaska.

Goh-damn, you folks are stupid.

Mentally all Texas.
Florida man.



By the way, how was your dumb-ass game yesterday? Did y'all get drunk? Of course you did.




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TRIBAL ELDERS' SAGE WORDS

As John was leaving, he gave me some advice. Now, being a polite sort of fellow, and always keen to learn about life, especially as other people see it, I attended to his words with avid interest. But I suspect I may have been listening for a bark up the wrong tree.


"Always wait to pass gas till you exit. So people will be sad to see you go."

"And then you won't have to hang around in your own low-lying cloud."


Shutting the door behind him, he remarked "it's denser when you get older; drifts less."

It's safe to say he had the final word on this. He's in his eighties, and obviously has given it much thought. When I am his age, I shall try to think of other things. Not to say he wasn't original, but his digestive rumbling may be of importance to him alone.


Evenso, I may put his words to a practical test. Several tests. Have to establish a pattern, to see if his observation holds. This may require a change of diet. I wonder what he eats.


Years ago one of the regulars at a nearby establishment had a dog that seemed to subsist entirely on cabbage. A delightful animal, great friendly shaggy personality, and unfortunately silent but deadly. We eventually modified our schedules so that we could have chats that wouldn't be interrupted by weapons of mass destruction, given that the ventilation there was insufficient to the task. I doubt that he himself ever noticed, because though mostly likable, he really was an insensitive sort of chap, in very many ways.

And also given to sage pronouncements.


Word of warning for anyone reading this: be selective of the old farts you listen to; some of them blather. Or worse. Giving advice to the young is an art.


Oh, and don't eat too much cabbage.
Or feed it to your dog.



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A SPLENDID GAME

As you might expect, what with being a foreign commie and all that, snobbishly superior and European, the Super Bowl has no meaning in my world. I am, in fact, reclining gracefully upon my settee, eating lotus petals. Oh, the sadness, languor, ennui. It is profound.
While sneering in my usual fashion about beer-swilling Yanks.
Most of whom are middle-class men.
Sportsfans.

Howling sweaty jobbies fondly clutching their balls while mutant freaks pound each other into the astroturf down in Florida. Which I did NOT express in any way on the internet, merely remarking that the game was on.


John O, who lives in Georgia and has religion, wrote:
"To those who want to badmouth football or the Super Bowl, fine. Do so elsewhere. If you use broadcast TV you have at least 4 other choices. Cable? You have at least 80 or more. Streaming services? It'll take you the length of the game to make a choice. Live in a town with a library? Own a DVD player? How many TVs are in your house? Do I bitch and cajole when you watch those damn romances? (Oops, sorry. I have marriage PTSD.)"

My response: "The Piano is probably the best movie ever. Way better than Gone With The Wind."


I'm not really passionate about Foot Ball.
It's a very stupid game.



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FATTY THIGHS

That's just wrong! None of the other individuals here smell like rotten fish! Obviously turkey vultures have a bad sense of smell. And he's inclined unfavourably toward the octopus.
As well as the penguins. Who don't actually smell fishy. At all!


Also, he's a very biased individual. Everything he doesn't like smells nasty. Incredibly nasty. Creatures whom he does want to eat, and would opportunistically gobble up when no one is watching, smell good.

Given that he also has a fondness for fatty thighs ("turkey vultures just LOVE fatty thighs!"), it is disturbing that he is encouraging me to eat more. My thighs, apparently, are not up to snuff.

My legs, while undoubtedly better than Louis The Fourteenth's gams, are NOT going to be on the menu. I have no plans to croak for your delectation.

He also talks about yummy chicken thighs. I am unflattered by the comparison.


Australians, he says, are particularly tasty. Crunchy, creamy, and pudding-like. Enrobed in chocolate. Dark chocolate. I should in all ways strive to be more Australian.
And seriously, work on those thighs.
Avoid fish.


Stupid ugly people smell like fish.
Doesn't everyone know that?



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WHAT WAS THAT CHICKEN?

Hard to tell whether it was in fact chicken at all. Maybe one of Gonzo's friends from the Muppet Show. A bit fibrous. Pearl Chicken (珍珠雞 'jan jyu kai') is normally not like that. Pearl chicken ("petite chicken") is a smaller version of glutinous rice chicken (糯米雞 'lo mai kai'), being bird flesh, a slice of lap cheung and maybe a black mushroom, packed in glutinous rice and wrapped in a lotus leaf for steaming.


Perhaps I should have had it a cup of with Pu Erh Tea.
Still wouldn't have made the meat recognizable.
Chicken isn't normally "beefy".

Somewhere in between lunchtime and dinner. My eating schedule has always been somewhat off-kilter, but during lockdown now on my days at home it's much more so. First cup of coffee at around seven. Second between nine and twelve. Third after that, then an interval during which I may walk around the neighborhood avoiding people with my pipe. Then lunch, often at tea-time. A cup of hot tea, then another pipe full. Sometimes it's already twilight by that time.

Regular meal times make sense when one is a social diner. When I was still doing credit & Collections that wasn't the case, and at my current job that ain't the case either. Dinner itself is an imaginary construct. Food does taste better in company, if one has chosen that company and likes them in the first place. A shared meal. If they're just in the vicinity, then by all means snarl at them and make flesh-ripping sounds. If possible, foam at the mouth. That's MY glutinous rice and chicken, get away you skeevy person! My plate! My fork!
Stab you with the sharp item! Back! Back!


Pipe smoking is, nowadays, considered a non-social activity, probably even anti-social. So no need to share the fine brown flake tobacco, richly flavourful from long fermentation, with its faint whiff of freshly mown hay, the fields in summer, and over-ripe stone fruits fallen to the ground and slightly rotting in a distant orchard.


It feels like my entire life has been training for a pandemic.
Everybody out there is a disease carrying organism.


Especially if they dislike pipe smokers.

TOBACCO INDEX


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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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