What we can learn from San Francisco's vaccine allocations is that single white men between fifty five and sixty five years old are not considered worthwhile to society.
We are absolutely and completely expendable.
E-mail I received from the City and County of San Francisco on February 24th. below:
Thanks for signing up for notifications about the COVID-19 vaccine. Based on what you told us, you are eligible to get the vaccine.
We've opened high volume vaccination sites, which have a limited number of appointments available. Vaccinations are free and you do not need insurance.
[Embedded link] Get vaccinated against COVID-19
Even if you are eligible, there may not be an appointment available right now. Please be patient. Keep checking for available appointments.
[Embedded link] Get more information on the COVID-19 vaccine in San Francisco.
Thank you,
City and County of San Francisco
Dear City and County of San Francisco. I've tried to get the bloody vaccine for four weeks now. No dice. But every damned bartender I know, as well as street people and many other non-essential personell, seems to have already gotten it, or be in line to get it.
Perhaps that's because my particular demographic (SWM 55-65) is only useful to society as recipients of opprobrium -- apparently we are what's wrong with the world -- or as targets for beer advertising, erectile dysfunction meds, little purple pill pitches, or opportunistic pleas for funding from Republican politicians running for office. So the playing field is not even. You cannot claim that we're all getting a fair crack.
You know something, dear City and County of San Francisco? They never should have put you in charge of vaccine distribution. Y'all suck at it.
This past week alone nearly three dozen of my social media friends and contacts have happily mentioned that they're getting the vaccine. It's good to know that I have friends and contacts who now stand far less chance of dying of the Republican virus.
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Sunday, March 21, 2021
GILLIGAN, DROP THOSE COCONUTS!
On one of the pipe forums, someone asked what everyone's desert isle tobacco, book, music, and videographic entertainment (movie, teevee show, music) would be. Now of course I hate questions like that! Not because they're probing and too personal, but because a simple response is insufficient, and therefor inaccurate and misleading.
1) Astley's No. 109 Medium Flake.
2) Indian Food: A Historical Companion, by K. T. Achaya.
3) Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt Mahagonny, By Bertold Brecht & Kurt Weill.
ONE: and also Doblone D'Oro, Brown Clunee, Orlik's Golden Sliced, and several others.
TWO: Add the three hundred poems of the Tang Dynasty to that, as well as several books by Simenon and Johan Fabricius, plus the Collected Short Stories of O'Henry, the complete Saki (H. H. Munro), as well as about a crate or two of other books. Plus my dictionaries, of course.
THREE: Yeah, that's about it. I'm perfectly content with the same opera over and over again.
My apartment mate, presently dozing with the stuffed animals in her room, would have the following selection:
1) No tobacco whatsoever, ick poo and p'tuie p'tuie.
2) Brideshead Revisited, AND A Tree Grows In Brooklyn.
3) Valley of the Dolls.
And that, of course, brings up an old joke. Two Dutchmen give their rescuers a tour of the desert island where they've been marooned for several years. "This is my church, which I built from scratch, and that is his church, which he built from scratch". What about that church over there? "Oh, that's the church neither one of us would be caught dead in. Damned heretics."
You get the idea.
It takes a flexible and unique person to be stuck on a desert island.
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1) Astley's No. 109 Medium Flake.
2) Indian Food: A Historical Companion, by K. T. Achaya.
3) Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt Mahagonny, By Bertold Brecht & Kurt Weill.
ONE: and also Doblone D'Oro, Brown Clunee, Orlik's Golden Sliced, and several others.
TWO: Add the three hundred poems of the Tang Dynasty to that, as well as several books by Simenon and Johan Fabricius, plus the Collected Short Stories of O'Henry, the complete Saki (H. H. Munro), as well as about a crate or two of other books. Plus my dictionaries, of course.
THREE: Yeah, that's about it. I'm perfectly content with the same opera over and over again.
My apartment mate, presently dozing with the stuffed animals in her room, would have the following selection:
1) No tobacco whatsoever, ick poo and p'tuie p'tuie.
2) Brideshead Revisited, AND A Tree Grows In Brooklyn.
3) Valley of the Dolls.
And that, of course, brings up an old joke. Two Dutchmen give their rescuers a tour of the desert island where they've been marooned for several years. "This is my church, which I built from scratch, and that is his church, which he built from scratch". What about that church over there? "Oh, that's the church neither one of us would be caught dead in. Damned heretics."
You get the idea.
It takes a flexible and unique person to be stuck on a desert island.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 20, 2021
SHERLOCK HOLMES: A PRETENTIOUS SMARTY-PANTS DRUG ADDICT
There are presently five briars waiting at my work station to clean up and rehabilitate. I would have dealt with them today, but I was working with one of our more idiosyncratic fellows.
Which, you must understand, puts limitations on what I can do or undertake.
Shan't say anymore except to remark that his worldview is unique.
My own weltanschauung is not thus. I am a dreadfully normal man. Fairly scientifically and medically literate, and not given to novel reinterpretations of reality to match my own fond praeconceptions. Possibly because I am considerably younger and the treads on my brain haven't worn off.
That goes double as regards some of the regulars yacking on the porch.
They're mostly my age, but you wouldn't think so.
Mental rigour mortis.
This pipe is probably the most eccentric thing I own. And it is unusual. Ropp was known for cherry wood pipes, it was rare that they ventured into Erica Arborea burl. At one time every university man, especially one majoring in history, classical literature, or philosophy, had a cherry wood. Along with at least one good briar, and possibly a Calabash pipe.
Calabash pipes have become quite rare since Turkey imposed an export ban on uncarved meerschaum, and now manufactures the bowl inserts. Technically perfect, but practically unsmokable. They don't understand the concept of a narrow normal size hole with only the slightest of tapers. And the gourd itself is now seldom grown with the pegs placed to develop the right shape. Also, plastic shank extensions (so that a mouthpiece can be fitted snugly), are an abomination that uglifies the whole. Wood should be used. But a good calabash can be a delightful piece of equipment.
A well made calabash with correctly fitted and proportioned parts is something to treasure. It can be used with stronger tobaccos, because the air chamber mellows the smoke, and if the bowl is meerschaum or a similar porous material it bears repeated fills over an entire afternoon of swatting Suetonius during rainy weather. Or James Joyce. It's up to you.
I remember several winter afternoons at my grandmother's house in Berkeley, going through cans of Rattray's Black Mallory or Highland Targe (both full Latakia tobacco mixtures) at a fairly rapid clip. I hope she didn't mind. Maybe it reminded her of my dad and my uncle (living in Holland and Canada respectively).
Sherlock Holmes, by the way, never smoked a calabash; the books speak of a cherry wood, a black briar, and a clay pipe. The calabash is a stage and film convention that makes him more recognizable and more eccentric. And let's face it, Sherlock Holmes is a bloody bore anyway, and the stories are very silly.
I haven't smoked either my cherry woods or my calabashes in a while.
Briars are more thoughtful and more practical.
Also more discreet.
I am reminded of an old photograph of my father. Black and white, with correct lighting. He's at his desk, turned to face the camera, with a briar pipe by Comoy, Lovatt shape. He was younger in that photograph than when I knew him. It was probably taken only a few years after his stint flying bombers over Germany. Possibly after he had become an aeronautical engineer.
But I know he also had a calabash. I remember him smoking it.
He may have at one point also had a cherry wood.
TOBACCO INDEX
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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Which, you must understand, puts limitations on what I can do or undertake.
Shan't say anymore except to remark that his worldview is unique.
My own weltanschauung is not thus. I am a dreadfully normal man. Fairly scientifically and medically literate, and not given to novel reinterpretations of reality to match my own fond praeconceptions. Possibly because I am considerably younger and the treads on my brain haven't worn off.
That goes double as regards some of the regulars yacking on the porch.
They're mostly my age, but you wouldn't think so.
Mental rigour mortis.
Calabash pipes have become quite rare since Turkey imposed an export ban on uncarved meerschaum, and now manufactures the bowl inserts. Technically perfect, but practically unsmokable. They don't understand the concept of a narrow normal size hole with only the slightest of tapers. And the gourd itself is now seldom grown with the pegs placed to develop the right shape. Also, plastic shank extensions (so that a mouthpiece can be fitted snugly), are an abomination that uglifies the whole. Wood should be used. But a good calabash can be a delightful piece of equipment.
I remember several winter afternoons at my grandmother's house in Berkeley, going through cans of Rattray's Black Mallory or Highland Targe (both full Latakia tobacco mixtures) at a fairly rapid clip. I hope she didn't mind. Maybe it reminded her of my dad and my uncle (living in Holland and Canada respectively).
Sherlock Holmes, by the way, never smoked a calabash; the books speak of a cherry wood, a black briar, and a clay pipe. The calabash is a stage and film convention that makes him more recognizable and more eccentric. And let's face it, Sherlock Holmes is a bloody bore anyway, and the stories are very silly.
I haven't smoked either my cherry woods or my calabashes in a while.
Briars are more thoughtful and more practical.
Also more discreet.
I am reminded of an old photograph of my father. Black and white, with correct lighting. He's at his desk, turned to face the camera, with a briar pipe by Comoy, Lovatt shape. He was younger in that photograph than when I knew him. It was probably taken only a few years after his stint flying bombers over Germany. Possibly after he had become an aeronautical engineer.
But I know he also had a calabash. I remember him smoking it.
He may have at one point also had a cherry wood.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 19, 2021
DELICIOUS, DELICIOUS!
Like any sane man angry about the present state of the country, I spent the last two hours of the evening listening to war music and reading about octopusses. Because octopusses are much more admirable than my fellow citizens at this point. And I for one would welcome our octopodal overlords. Sometimes, like Kent Brockman, I wonder if it's time to start cracking skulls open and feasting upon the delicious goo inside.
Most of the country smells bad and eats too much.
And their mom dresses them funny.
War songs sound excellent when sung by a woman. Kiritan AI (pictured above) does a stellar rendition of not only Hohei no Honryo, but also the British Grenadiers.
If the eight legged squishy aliens invade, they could far worse than to broadcast in a voice like hers. "Bow down, worthless humans, and bring us fish!"
Then they would reward us with goo.
Delicious, delicious goo.
==========================================================================
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Most of the country smells bad and eats too much.
And their mom dresses them funny.
If the eight legged squishy aliens invade, they could far worse than to broadcast in a voice like hers. "Bow down, worthless humans, and bring us fish!"
Then they would reward us with goo.
Delicious, delicious goo.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 18, 2021
TEA TIME, INCLEMENT WEATHER, TRUTH
Lunch (breakfast), as you would expect, involved Sriracha hotsauce. Which is a fundamental condiment that no kitchen should be without. If it weren't for me, there would be no hot sauce in this apartment I share with another person, and in fact it might not ever smell pleasantly of chilipeppers, curry, or fish sauce, on ocassion. It might not even smell of lemon grass or galangal. Or very faintly of pipe tobacco. It would smell like her room. Clean.
Much of the time I smoke outdoors. Even on rainy days like today.
One has to show a certain amount of consideration for others.
It's bad enough that I smoke. But it is an excellent thing to let the place air out for several hours before a non-smoker returns home. Which is an hour or so after tea time, so after one o'clock one goes outside to indulge. Or in the early morning before she leaves for the day.
Sometimes smokers can be decent human beings.
The pipe shown in the drawing above is one I restored quite a while back. The previous owner had caked and tarred it up over the years, chewed through the stem, and horribly abused the poor dear. Conceivably, as a human being, he left some things to be desired.
I've never understood people who maltreat their briars. If you treat it well and clean it once in a while it will give you many years of service, providing pleasure often when you most need it. Nor will it lay around stinking up your quarters when not in use.
There are quite a few rescue-pipes in my collection.
Over on the Zuckerbergian side of the internet someone posted a picture of Che Guevara smoking a pipe. Che Guevara, as you probably know, was a psychopath; murderous, and a despicable piece of filth. Which some people pointed out. Various pipesmokers promptly leapt to his defense, as pipesmokers are all kindly avuncular types incapable of nastiness.
In fact, pipesmokers are all Hobbits.
Positively Tolkienesque.
I personally know several pipesmokers who are blistering bastards.
Toxic individuals who suck the life out of any party.
That's not just a comment on their pipes.
It beastly wet outside, and cold.
I shall need a heavy coat.
And an umbrella.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Much of the time I smoke outdoors. Even on rainy days like today.
It's bad enough that I smoke. But it is an excellent thing to let the place air out for several hours before a non-smoker returns home. Which is an hour or so after tea time, so after one o'clock one goes outside to indulge. Or in the early morning before she leaves for the day.
Sometimes smokers can be decent human beings.
The pipe shown in the drawing above is one I restored quite a while back. The previous owner had caked and tarred it up over the years, chewed through the stem, and horribly abused the poor dear. Conceivably, as a human being, he left some things to be desired.
I've never understood people who maltreat their briars. If you treat it well and clean it once in a while it will give you many years of service, providing pleasure often when you most need it. Nor will it lay around stinking up your quarters when not in use.
There are quite a few rescue-pipes in my collection.
Over on the Zuckerbergian side of the internet someone posted a picture of Che Guevara smoking a pipe. Che Guevara, as you probably know, was a psychopath; murderous, and a despicable piece of filth. Which some people pointed out. Various pipesmokers promptly leapt to his defense, as pipesmokers are all kindly avuncular types incapable of nastiness.
Positively Tolkienesque.
I personally know several pipesmokers who are blistering bastards.
Toxic individuals who suck the life out of any party.
That's not just a comment on their pipes.
It beastly wet outside, and cold.
I shall need a heavy coat.
And an umbrella.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PEACE, LOVE, AND UNDERSTANDING
Apparently Robert Aaron Long had a good reason for going on a shooting rampage. A lot of things in Georgia qualify as good reason for doing that. Local law enforcement is keenly attuned to it, and has nurturing feelings.
"He was pretty much fed up and had been kind of at the end of his rope. Yesterday was a really bad day for him, and this is what he did."
------Captain Jay Baker, Cherokee County Sheriff's Office
If some of my Asian American neighbors were like that, there would be dead Caucasians all over this neighborhood. If women felt like that, very many males would have snuffed it.
And if I thought like that, unimaginable consequences.
Having a "really bad day" is not a reason, nor an explanation.
Except in Cherokee County. Possible Fox country.
My apartment mate is Chinese American, an old classmate from the last time I went to college. Despite very many "really bad days", she hasn't killed anyone yet. I have a new appreciation for her tolerance now. No dead whites or males.
Maybe we have to be careful around rural Southerners?
And make sure they don't have "really bad days"?
You know, I've had some pretty bad days. Like the two years plus when miraculously I didn't die of a heart attack, before my insurance kicked in and I went down to Chinese Hospital and got treatment, and within less than a month a coronary stent. Those were truly horrid days. The nurse who admitted me there was having a "really bad day" that first visit; an ill-tempered Caucasian dude (me) who stank of tobacco can cause that, even without trying.
If the admitting physician there when my appendix ruptured had had a "really bad day" (night, actually), and thought like Robert Aaron Long or Captain Jay Baker, I would be dead now.
There were a whole heck of a lot of people at the hospital while I was there who, honestly, were also having "really bad days". Which is more or less what the ICU is all about.
Cite:
The suspect told investigators that "he loved God and guns".
End cite.
At this moment, there are people all over having really bad days.
Including very many Christians and gun aficionados.
That right there may be a problem.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"He was pretty much fed up and had been kind of at the end of his rope. Yesterday was a really bad day for him, and this is what he did."
------Captain Jay Baker, Cherokee County Sheriff's Office
If some of my Asian American neighbors were like that, there would be dead Caucasians all over this neighborhood. If women felt like that, very many males would have snuffed it.
And if I thought like that, unimaginable consequences.
Having a "really bad day" is not a reason, nor an explanation.
Except in Cherokee County. Possible Fox country.
My apartment mate is Chinese American, an old classmate from the last time I went to college. Despite very many "really bad days", she hasn't killed anyone yet. I have a new appreciation for her tolerance now. No dead whites or males.
Maybe we have to be careful around rural Southerners?
And make sure they don't have "really bad days"?
You know, I've had some pretty bad days. Like the two years plus when miraculously I didn't die of a heart attack, before my insurance kicked in and I went down to Chinese Hospital and got treatment, and within less than a month a coronary stent. Those were truly horrid days. The nurse who admitted me there was having a "really bad day" that first visit; an ill-tempered Caucasian dude (me) who stank of tobacco can cause that, even without trying.
If the admitting physician there when my appendix ruptured had had a "really bad day" (night, actually), and thought like Robert Aaron Long or Captain Jay Baker, I would be dead now.
There were a whole heck of a lot of people at the hospital while I was there who, honestly, were also having "really bad days". Which is more or less what the ICU is all about.
Cite:
The suspect told investigators that "he loved God and guns".
End cite.
At this moment, there are people all over having really bad days.
Including very many Christians and gun aficionados.
That right there may be a problem.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A HORRIBLE ATTITUDE
Neither my landlady nor my apartment mate get down to Chinatown often, especially during this pandemic. Both of them purchase their groceries locally, either at the small market on the corner of California and Polk streets, or at the Trader Joe's further up. Exceptionally at Whole Foods, which is also nearby.
In all honesty I do not particularly like Trader Joe's and Whole Foods. I feel that the food stores in Chinatown cater more to my type. I do not buy much -- it's only me eating, one person -- and I do not need very fancy stuff. I don't really like the culture of those places.
They're kind of yuppie. Snooty. White.
There is a difference being a middle-aged white guy surrounded by yuppies, and a middle-aged white guy who speaks Cantonese shopping for groceries in Chinatown. It feels more comfortable, and I know what I want.
[What do I want? Yauchoi. Fu qua. Honey Loquat Candy. Lee Kum Kee curry sauce. Hot sauce. Sambal. A single potato. Meltyblend chocolates. Lobak. Charsiu turnovers. Egg tarts. Kwan Miao noodles. Cheung fan.]
Yesterday I shopped at four stores on or near Stockton Street, and a bakery.
I got exactly what I wanted, had some pleasant chit chat.
Bought some pastries for other people.
Saw people I knew.
This morning, my apartment mate breakfasted on some of the pastries I brought back in front of her computer, getting upset at the news. Which is understandable, as every day brings a new roster of outrages, assaults on Asian Americans, casual violence by a thirty nine year old man against a seventy five year old Asian woman down on Market Street (she beat the crap out of him), elderly Chinese gentleman needing stitches, self-serving non-ameliorative poofle by Republicans about the racial hatred that they enabled, hand wringing by authorities what can we do what can we do?
Plus bland tut-tut-tutting by public figures and civic leaders.
On the other hand, I'm fairly used to the idea that there are some pretty shitty people in this country. In the first month after I returned several years ago, two people told me to go back where I came from (because of my accent), and a fellow student informed me that "we beat up people like you where I come from". A veteran, unaware that my relatives on both sides, multiple generations, had served in the United States Military, told me that "we liberated you people, you ought to be grateful", and I was called a god-damned communist.
All of that still happens occasionally.
Born here, but still a "foreigner".
I'm not really "one of us".
And I should shut up.
So yeah, there are some perfectly vicious people here. It was only a matter of time before that came bubbling to the surface. There has always been a deep vein of bigotry, intolerance, and xenophobia in this country. And white self-righteous Christianity.
Basically, everywhere between Treasure Island and Brooklyn is shitheadistan, speckled with some good people. I have no wish to meet "the real America"; I've dealt with those fuckers already. Don't want to visit those places either.
No one in their right mind would.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In all honesty I do not particularly like Trader Joe's and Whole Foods. I feel that the food stores in Chinatown cater more to my type. I do not buy much -- it's only me eating, one person -- and I do not need very fancy stuff. I don't really like the culture of those places.
They're kind of yuppie. Snooty. White.
There is a difference being a middle-aged white guy surrounded by yuppies, and a middle-aged white guy who speaks Cantonese shopping for groceries in Chinatown. It feels more comfortable, and I know what I want.
[What do I want? Yauchoi. Fu qua. Honey Loquat Candy. Lee Kum Kee curry sauce. Hot sauce. Sambal. A single potato. Meltyblend chocolates. Lobak. Charsiu turnovers. Egg tarts. Kwan Miao noodles. Cheung fan.]
Yesterday I shopped at four stores on or near Stockton Street, and a bakery.
I got exactly what I wanted, had some pleasant chit chat.
Bought some pastries for other people.
Saw people I knew.
This morning, my apartment mate breakfasted on some of the pastries I brought back in front of her computer, getting upset at the news. Which is understandable, as every day brings a new roster of outrages, assaults on Asian Americans, casual violence by a thirty nine year old man against a seventy five year old Asian woman down on Market Street (she beat the crap out of him), elderly Chinese gentleman needing stitches, self-serving non-ameliorative poofle by Republicans about the racial hatred that they enabled, hand wringing by authorities what can we do what can we do?
Plus bland tut-tut-tutting by public figures and civic leaders.
All of that still happens occasionally.
Born here, but still a "foreigner".
I'm not really "one of us".
And I should shut up.
So yeah, there are some perfectly vicious people here. It was only a matter of time before that came bubbling to the surface. There has always been a deep vein of bigotry, intolerance, and xenophobia in this country. And white self-righteous Christianity.
Basically, everywhere between Treasure Island and Brooklyn is shitheadistan, speckled with some good people. I have no wish to meet "the real America"; I've dealt with those fuckers already. Don't want to visit those places either.
No one in their right mind would.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 17, 2021
CHINESE GIRLS
Some Chinese girls are delightful. Well, not so much girls as elderly ladies. Old women. Like the auntie who sometimes sneaks a surreptitious cigarette directly across from my building in the afternoon. She lives around the corner, and I suspect her kinfolk would be properly horrified if they "officially" knew she smoked. They probably do know, but she hides it from them, and they won't say anything. Mm, this sun is good. This ledge is good.
This Marlboro is EXCEPTIONALLY good.
The woman at the bakery who used to work at the dimsum place that closed a few years ago. She likes seeing me, I like seeing her. We exchange a bit of chit chat, but we don't know each other's names. The age difference is not nearly enough to call her "auntie" -- at least I don't think so -- and "elder sister" might be too familiar. Friend (朋友 'pang yau').
The place were she used to work was filled with old ladies.
Nice people. Good food.
And of course "auntie with the pistachio-hued hat". Who is out getting a morning walk early everyday. This time last year she would trudge down the block a few times, stopping halfway to turn around and head back up. She made considerable progress over these months, and now frequently passes when I'm at the bus stop on Van Ness. I believe she's now doing ten to twelve blocks every morning. She's very chipper.
This morning I was about the neighborhood having an early smoke. She was across the street, and we waved at each other. Sometimes I see her leave the building where she lives, other times she's on one of the side streets. I think she must be in her late seventies.
She walks better than I do. My arthritic knee and hip are a pain in the whatsis.
So I'm a bit jealous.
I suspect that all these old ladies have children and grandchildren who hate the smell of tobacco, and consider it a nasty filthy habit, like most Californians these days. Born here, educated in English, scant ability to speak Cantonese. But supportive of grandma getting out of the house and being active. As well as too intimidated (respectful) to reign her in.
It's probably both immensely liberating and very good for their well-being.
And at that age, who would object to the occasional smoke?
Some elderly Cantonese ladies have very nice smiles when they're happy.
Such as when they see someone they know and like.
There are a number of them here.
And so far, none of them have done that 'repulsed by the horrid odour hand wave' when I pass by with my pipe. This morning's bowlful was aged red Virginia with the merest whisps of Perique and fire cured Kentucky. Perfect for a brisk stroll on a sunny day.
A kind of old-school tobacco smell.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This Marlboro is EXCEPTIONALLY good.
The woman at the bakery who used to work at the dimsum place that closed a few years ago. She likes seeing me, I like seeing her. We exchange a bit of chit chat, but we don't know each other's names. The age difference is not nearly enough to call her "auntie" -- at least I don't think so -- and "elder sister" might be too familiar. Friend (朋友 'pang yau').
The place were she used to work was filled with old ladies.
Nice people. Good food.
And of course "auntie with the pistachio-hued hat". Who is out getting a morning walk early everyday. This time last year she would trudge down the block a few times, stopping halfway to turn around and head back up. She made considerable progress over these months, and now frequently passes when I'm at the bus stop on Van Ness. I believe she's now doing ten to twelve blocks every morning. She's very chipper.
She walks better than I do. My arthritic knee and hip are a pain in the whatsis.
So I'm a bit jealous.
I suspect that all these old ladies have children and grandchildren who hate the smell of tobacco, and consider it a nasty filthy habit, like most Californians these days. Born here, educated in English, scant ability to speak Cantonese. But supportive of grandma getting out of the house and being active. As well as too intimidated (respectful) to reign her in.
It's probably both immensely liberating and very good for their well-being.
And at that age, who would object to the occasional smoke?
Some elderly Cantonese ladies have very nice smiles when they're happy.
Such as when they see someone they know and like.
There are a number of them here.
And so far, none of them have done that 'repulsed by the horrid odour hand wave' when I pass by with my pipe. This morning's bowlful was aged red Virginia with the merest whisps of Perique and fire cured Kentucky. Perfect for a brisk stroll on a sunny day.
A kind of old-school tobacco smell.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, March 16, 2021
THE SOUR OLD GIT DOWN THE BLOCK
There's a meme on the internet which has as its final text "I'm old and I know things". Which makes complete sense to us old guys, and "old" in modern speech refers to everyone over forty. Where "antique" as well as "dessicated and clapped out" and "rickety fossil" start.
Apparently I am old and know things.
That surprises the heck out of me. I'm just a slightly anal person with mild Aspergers and a curiosity about stuff, not particularly neurotic, and I research things that catch my interest.
Which, I will maintain, is absolutely normal.
Indeed I have done some peculiar things a little more intensely and in-depth than many people. In particular I have indulged my curiosity about pipe tobaccos and the equipment in which to smoke them. The interest in pipes is shown in this site: Briar Pipe Illustrations.
I've also smoked a lot of stuff.
These are clickable links that tell you some of the tobaccos I've tried: ASHTON PIPE TOBACCOS, BAAI TABAK (The Dutch preference Maryland ribbon blends), DRUCQUERS BLENDS, CORNELL AND DIEHL BLENDS BY BOB RUNOWSKI, ESOTERICA TOBACCIANA, DUNHILL, GLPEASE, MCCONNELL, MCCLELLAND, PETERSON PIPE TOBACCOS, RATTRAY'S VIRGINIAS, SAMUEL GAWITH, SUTLIFF A (aromatics), SUTLIFF B (non-aromatics).
And of course, Erinmore Flake: My Dalliance With A trollop.
A fellow Dutch American (who likes Ennerdale FLake) would not forgive me if I neglected to link my opinion about the nastiest tobacco ever: Clan, by Theodorus Niemeyer. Which is in exactly the same category of heretical offensiveness as Molto Dolce, Cult Bloodred Moon, Mixture 79, and Hobbit's Weed.
I have not delved much into the subject of medicated footpowder.
That's an oversight I must correct at some point.
For the military readership.
It's important.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Apparently I am old and know things.
That surprises the heck out of me. I'm just a slightly anal person with mild Aspergers and a curiosity about stuff, not particularly neurotic, and I research things that catch my interest.
Which, I will maintain, is absolutely normal.
I've also smoked a lot of stuff.
These are clickable links that tell you some of the tobaccos I've tried: ASHTON PIPE TOBACCOS, BAAI TABAK (The Dutch preference Maryland ribbon blends), DRUCQUERS BLENDS, CORNELL AND DIEHL BLENDS BY BOB RUNOWSKI, ESOTERICA TOBACCIANA, DUNHILL, GLPEASE, MCCONNELL, MCCLELLAND, PETERSON PIPE TOBACCOS, RATTRAY'S VIRGINIAS, SAMUEL GAWITH, SUTLIFF A (aromatics), SUTLIFF B (non-aromatics).
And of course, Erinmore Flake: My Dalliance With A trollop.
A fellow Dutch American (who likes Ennerdale FLake) would not forgive me if I neglected to link my opinion about the nastiest tobacco ever: Clan, by Theodorus Niemeyer. Which is in exactly the same category of heretical offensiveness as Molto Dolce, Cult Bloodred Moon, Mixture 79, and Hobbit's Weed.
I have not delved much into the subject of medicated footpowder.
That's an oversight I must correct at some point.
For the military readership.
It's important.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
GETTING ALL JIGGY WITH IT; THE SPIRITUAL ASPECT OF PUBLIC DRINKING
Being, as you know, a very negative person and downright nasty, I am not looking forward to tomorrow, when Americans of all heritages and ethnic origins will engage in public intoxication, a great American tradition brought to us primarily by English-speaking rump hats.
Curvaceous wenches in zesty sex-slut leprechaun outfits.
College boys speaking in brogues. Corned beef.
People puking in brotherly droves.
There's nothing more American than Saint Patrick's day.
When, traditionally, I stay entirely out of bars, because some inbred fifth generation yutz invariably takes offense at my accent and tries to pop me one.
I fully expect the idiots in the second floor apartment across the street to throw a raucous party. If it goes on past ten a clock I'm calling the riot squad on them.
Saint Patrick's Day is meant for quiet self-reflection, austerity, and snakes.
All Celtic music sounds better with accordions and banjos.
Heathens! You're all heathens!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Curvaceous wenches in zesty sex-slut leprechaun outfits.
College boys speaking in brogues. Corned beef.
People puking in brotherly droves.
There's nothing more American than Saint Patrick's day.
When, traditionally, I stay entirely out of bars, because some inbred fifth generation yutz invariably takes offense at my accent and tries to pop me one.
I fully expect the idiots in the second floor apartment across the street to throw a raucous party. If it goes on past ten a clock I'm calling the riot squad on them.
Saint Patrick's Day is meant for quiet self-reflection, austerity, and snakes.
All Celtic music sounds better with accordions and banjos.
Heathens! You're all heathens!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 15, 2021
IF YOU LIVE IN SAN FRANCISCO, FORGET ABOUT GETTING VACCINATED
Three weeks ago 'City and County of San Francisco' sent me an e-mail telling me breathlessly that I am elligible for the vaccine. So I checked around, made phone calls, and investigated. The result? Zip diddly. Yesterday they sent another breathless e-mail. And, with the news blaring that vaccines were now open to "middle aged people" (defined as aged sixteen to sixty four years old), my hopes went up.
I need not have hoped. This is San Francisco. So nix, nada, diddly squat. Complete bupkes. According to California's state government, ten percent or more of the state's population have been fully vaccinated. I did not know so many of us worked for the state. San Francisco is patting itself on the back about how they've performed very well indeed.
Many people are on the public payroll.
Based on today's results, I am not likely to get vaccinated in this city until sometime in the next century. If ever. So I fully expect another one of their damned breathless e-mails, rather like the Nigerian Banker e-mails or the Irish Sweepstakes, with exactly the same depressing results, before the end of the month. And then again in April. And May.
Yesterday I met two more people who have experienced a Covid 19 infection. Sofar, none of the Covid veterans I've met have died, but it's only a matter of time.
Many of our politicians have been vaccinated. Bar tenders who haven't worked in months have been vaccinated. Street people have been vaccinated.
If you are not a politician, bar tender, or street person, you have probably not been vaccinated.
You probably won't be.
Die, mofo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I need not have hoped. This is San Francisco. So nix, nada, diddly squat. Complete bupkes. According to California's state government, ten percent or more of the state's population have been fully vaccinated. I did not know so many of us worked for the state. San Francisco is patting itself on the back about how they've performed very well indeed.
Many people are on the public payroll.
Based on today's results, I am not likely to get vaccinated in this city until sometime in the next century. If ever. So I fully expect another one of their damned breathless e-mails, rather like the Nigerian Banker e-mails or the Irish Sweepstakes, with exactly the same depressing results, before the end of the month. And then again in April. And May.
Yesterday I met two more people who have experienced a Covid 19 infection. Sofar, none of the Covid veterans I've met have died, but it's only a matter of time.
Many of our politicians have been vaccinated. Bar tenders who haven't worked in months have been vaccinated. Street people have been vaccinated.
If you are not a politician, bar tender, or street person, you have probably not been vaccinated.
You probably won't be.
Die, mofo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SALTED COD AND OTHER FRAGMENTS
At giyara bajeh das minute ke bad, my apartment mate needed access to the internet on her computer, so I went into the bathroom to ponder life's great mysteries. Like why the stuffed turkey vulture (Sydney Fylbert) always wants to know if I ran into any corpses or cadavers on the way home and why I didn't just make any, good lord don't I realize that he's hungry? Whether the asthmatic street person two blocks away is an idiot, or if he'll actually survive long enough to get to his vaccination appointment two weeks hence. Will the electrician who's van is parked down the block stay in business till after this is over? And why is it so frikkin' cold?!?
Dingin la! Sejuk sekali!
I'm blaming the Republicans for this weather. Winter started when they were still in power.
Other deep questions:
Does Mary in North Carolina really need to stand on a footstool to scowl, or is that just so her husband Kaz can actually see the frowny lines on her forehead?
Why do I think more in scraps of other languages when it's cold?
Is Bergen Norwegen dialect really a work of the devil (as Cathrine Neslein Bugge avers in her groundbreaking essay "Bergens-dialekten Er Djevelens Verk") or is that a Neinorsk/Bokmal prejudice?
Cite:"Vi som fremdeles holder fast ved Gud ma smarest overtaler Bergenserne till å legge av seg sitt sprog av slutte å bekjempe Gud. Her må Kristne Bergensere gå foran i kampen. Gud velsigne dere!"
As someone who is able to read Dutch State Bible language, I am perfectly willing to assume that Bergen dialect ("Bergensk") is indeed the work of the devil. Those people should learn the Netherlandish tongue of the seventeenth century, that way they can converse in a civilized and sanctified language with the Christianized natives of northern Celebes, verkrampte Calvinist preachers in the Transvaal, and my ancestors in New York and New Jersey.
They'll stop taking heads when raiding enemy tribes.
And probably discover herring.
My ancestors in New York and New Jersey were godly people. One of them had twenty eight offspring who lived to adulthood. Probably because there was no television or central heating.
And naturally, one thinks of salt cod.
DRIED CODFISH
Klipvis, stokvis
The Vikings probably learned how to preserve cod for long voyages and sustenance during the bleak part of the year from the natives of Newfoundland a thousand years ago. That knowledge was transmitted to the Basques, Portuguese, and Dutch -- by imitation and osmosis -- which, accidentally, led to Europeans becoming the dominant hairy barbarians in much of the world.
Klipvis is cod salted before drying, stokvis is unsalted. Both types must be soaked in water before use. Those terms are often used for any fish thus preserved.
Dialectically, it is also 'labberdaan'.
One pound of salted cod, with potatoes, onion, and tomatoes, is dinner for four people.
HABERDINE WITH POTATO
[Labberdaan met aerpel]
One LBS Salt Cod.
One LBS potato (4 whites, or 8 reds, more or less).
Two large onions.
Four tomatoes.
A hefty squeeze of lemon juice.
A few cloves garlic.
Pepper, and a pinch of sugar.
Sherry or white wine.
Olive oil.
Soak the cod in several changes of cold water for a day or two. Drain. skin it, break apart coarsely, remove bones.
Dice the onions, chop the potatoes into chunks. Peel and seed the tomatoes, chop coarse. Mince the garlic.
Precook the potato for ten minutes in water, drain. Now gild the onion and the potato chunks with a generous amount of olive oil in a casserole, when the edges are starting to turn, add the fish and garlic. Agitate a little, then add tomatoes, lemon juice, a splash of white wine or sherry, water to cover, and a few turns from the pepper mill. Plus the pinch of sugar. A bay leaf or two would not be amiss. Neither would a handful of chopped parsley. Bring to a boil, turn to low, and let it simmer for half an hour. Take care that it not burn on the bottom.
The finished dish should be slightly soupy.
Remove bay leaves before serving.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Dingin la! Sejuk sekali!
I'm blaming the Republicans for this weather. Winter started when they were still in power.
Other deep questions:
Does Mary in North Carolina really need to stand on a footstool to scowl, or is that just so her husband Kaz can actually see the frowny lines on her forehead?
Why do I think more in scraps of other languages when it's cold?
Is Bergen Norwegen dialect really a work of the devil (as Cathrine Neslein Bugge avers in her groundbreaking essay "Bergens-dialekten Er Djevelens Verk") or is that a Neinorsk/Bokmal prejudice?
Cite:"Vi som fremdeles holder fast ved Gud ma smarest overtaler Bergenserne till å legge av seg sitt sprog av slutte å bekjempe Gud. Her må Kristne Bergensere gå foran i kampen. Gud velsigne dere!"
As someone who is able to read Dutch State Bible language, I am perfectly willing to assume that Bergen dialect ("Bergensk") is indeed the work of the devil. Those people should learn the Netherlandish tongue of the seventeenth century, that way they can converse in a civilized and sanctified language with the Christianized natives of northern Celebes, verkrampte Calvinist preachers in the Transvaal, and my ancestors in New York and New Jersey.
They'll stop taking heads when raiding enemy tribes.
And probably discover herring.
My ancestors in New York and New Jersey were godly people. One of them had twenty eight offspring who lived to adulthood. Probably because there was no television or central heating.
And naturally, one thinks of salt cod.
DRIED CODFISH
Klipvis, stokvis
The Vikings probably learned how to preserve cod for long voyages and sustenance during the bleak part of the year from the natives of Newfoundland a thousand years ago. That knowledge was transmitted to the Basques, Portuguese, and Dutch -- by imitation and osmosis -- which, accidentally, led to Europeans becoming the dominant hairy barbarians in much of the world.
Klipvis is cod salted before drying, stokvis is unsalted. Both types must be soaked in water before use. Those terms are often used for any fish thus preserved.
Dialectically, it is also 'labberdaan'.
One pound of salted cod, with potatoes, onion, and tomatoes, is dinner for four people.
HABERDINE WITH POTATO
[Labberdaan met aerpel]
One LBS Salt Cod.
One LBS potato (4 whites, or 8 reds, more or less).
Two large onions.
Four tomatoes.
A hefty squeeze of lemon juice.
A few cloves garlic.
Pepper, and a pinch of sugar.
Sherry or white wine.
Olive oil.
Soak the cod in several changes of cold water for a day or two. Drain. skin it, break apart coarsely, remove bones.
Dice the onions, chop the potatoes into chunks. Peel and seed the tomatoes, chop coarse. Mince the garlic.
Precook the potato for ten minutes in water, drain. Now gild the onion and the potato chunks with a generous amount of olive oil in a casserole, when the edges are starting to turn, add the fish and garlic. Agitate a little, then add tomatoes, lemon juice, a splash of white wine or sherry, water to cover, and a few turns from the pepper mill. Plus the pinch of sugar. A bay leaf or two would not be amiss. Neither would a handful of chopped parsley. Bring to a boil, turn to low, and let it simmer for half an hour. Take care that it not burn on the bottom.
The finished dish should be slightly soupy.
Remove bay leaves before serving.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
REALITY BITES
Some of my Facebook friends live in a different universe than I do. Which is one of the reasons I like Facebook, it keeps me grounded and in-touch with reality.
CITE 1:
Lovely bhatura, chana masala and gulab jamun combi. Only thing missing on this sweltering afternoon is a tall glass of chilled nimbu pani.
CITE 2:
I got a thing of lite Mayo because I felt guilty about cholesterol but it is gross. I found a use for it though - cleaning up sticky resinous stuff (follow with detergent).
CITE 3:
Doctors are warning people not to put frozen potatoes in their anus.
Taken together, these paint a picture of somewhere warm and sunny (perhaps too sunny), where food is treated in interesting ways.
A serving of chole bhatura would be splendid right now.
Hold the potato and mayo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CITE 1:
Lovely bhatura, chana masala and gulab jamun combi. Only thing missing on this sweltering afternoon is a tall glass of chilled nimbu pani.
CITE 2:
I got a thing of lite Mayo because I felt guilty about cholesterol but it is gross. I found a use for it though - cleaning up sticky resinous stuff (follow with detergent).
CITE 3:
Doctors are warning people not to put frozen potatoes in their anus.
Taken together, these paint a picture of somewhere warm and sunny (perhaps too sunny), where food is treated in interesting ways.
A serving of chole bhatura would be splendid right now.
Hold the potato and mayo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 14, 2021
FULL DAYLIGHT AND RAIN
Getting up on time this morning was no problem, neither was catching the bus to work. But in the quiet hours between those two actions, the effervescent madness, tension, and sense of urgency affected me. I forgot to take my daily medications while at the computer with my first cup of coffee. Consequently I was ill at ease and slightly uncomfortable for most of the day.
This did NOT impact on my conversations.
They were as sane and balanced as you would expect.
A rational man is not easily flapped or fazed.
"Right wing America has the hots for a cartoon bunny"
"No, that's just Tucker Carlson.
"It tells you something about Southern ideals of womanhood."
"Tells you that they're out of their minds there."
"It must be the climate."
That was while I was enjoying the first pipe of the day, in a pipe that has turned out to be one of my best smokes since I restored it a few years ago. A pleasing development, as the beginning was mediocre and unmemorable, and I wondered if I should bother having a new stem made. When one "redeems" pieces from the discard pile (too tarred and feathered, too clobbered and bitten through, and a of brand that means squiddly dot as far as collectability is concerned), it's always a crap shoot; will it be worth the time and effort? Will it return to a decent life and perform in a civilized manner? Will it eventually be something that one likes?
Some have not been so. Oh well, gave it the old school try.
This one is top-notch.
FURTHER LIGHT CONVERSATION
"Do you remember when my appendix exploded?" "No, should I?" "When I was recovering from surgery, they asked me three questions; did you pass gas, did you urinate, did you have a bowel movement yet?" "Should you really be talking about this in the presence of a lady?" "Oh, she's heard all of it already, in any case, what it seemed like is that I had died and gone to an English public school, where they worry about such things as regularity. Were they going to force me to take a cold shower next? It took me a day or two before I figured-out that they were just trying to see if the old fart was starting to function normally or were drastic measures in order." "They probably should've forced you into that cold shower. That would've done it."
"Where does one find "authentic" biryani in San Francisco? Anytime I've ordered it, it's some kind of fried rice dish. Not bad, but definitely not biryani." "You can't. Here it has to be homemade. Restaurants don't do it, it's always some kind of fried rice dish."
Second pipe of the day was in the hour leading up to lunch.
I can't remember the third pipe of the day. Around tea time, during a hectic period at work.
A retired gentleman confessed that the change from normal time to daylight savings had disturbed his routine. Everything was off. First cigar had been much later than usual.
I told him that it was only temporary. They would return his lost hour later, though without interest. It was like putting money in a checking account at the bank.
He asked if they'd at least give him a toaster for opening an account with them.
Unfortunately, it doesn't quite work that way.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This did NOT impact on my conversations.
They were as sane and balanced as you would expect.
"Right wing America has the hots for a cartoon bunny"
"No, that's just Tucker Carlson.
"It tells you something about Southern ideals of womanhood."
"Tells you that they're out of their minds there."
"It must be the climate."
That was while I was enjoying the first pipe of the day, in a pipe that has turned out to be one of my best smokes since I restored it a few years ago. A pleasing development, as the beginning was mediocre and unmemorable, and I wondered if I should bother having a new stem made. When one "redeems" pieces from the discard pile (too tarred and feathered, too clobbered and bitten through, and a of brand that means squiddly dot as far as collectability is concerned), it's always a crap shoot; will it be worth the time and effort? Will it return to a decent life and perform in a civilized manner? Will it eventually be something that one likes?
Some have not been so. Oh well, gave it the old school try.
This one is top-notch.
FURTHER LIGHT CONVERSATION
"Do you remember when my appendix exploded?" "No, should I?" "When I was recovering from surgery, they asked me three questions; did you pass gas, did you urinate, did you have a bowel movement yet?" "Should you really be talking about this in the presence of a lady?" "Oh, she's heard all of it already, in any case, what it seemed like is that I had died and gone to an English public school, where they worry about such things as regularity. Were they going to force me to take a cold shower next? It took me a day or two before I figured-out that they were just trying to see if the old fart was starting to function normally or were drastic measures in order." "They probably should've forced you into that cold shower. That would've done it."
"Where does one find "authentic" biryani in San Francisco? Anytime I've ordered it, it's some kind of fried rice dish. Not bad, but definitely not biryani." "You can't. Here it has to be homemade. Restaurants don't do it, it's always some kind of fried rice dish."
Second pipe of the day was in the hour leading up to lunch.
A retired gentleman confessed that the change from normal time to daylight savings had disturbed his routine. Everything was off. First cigar had been much later than usual.
I told him that it was only temporary. They would return his lost hour later, though without interest. It was like putting money in a checking account at the bank.
He asked if they'd at least give him a toaster for opening an account with them.
Unfortunately, it doesn't quite work that way.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
EASTERN EUROPEANS, BRAZILIANS, PUNJABIS, AND OFFENSIVE OLD GEEZERS
Eastern Euries, Brazilians and Argentians, Punjabis and Gujus, and offensive old geezers; what do they all have in common? They don't know how to wear a mask over their noses. If they're adults (obviously the elderly bastards are), you'd probably assume that they would have wigged on to the fact that they breathe through their noses by now. Nope. That big beak is purely decorative as far as they're concerned, that's why it has to be shown.
Can you tell that I'm a little peeved?
Over the past few days I've had conversations with people who will refuse the vaccine.
Herewith a sampling, representative of modern society.
MICRO CHIP MAN
A person whom I know because of work is convinced that the vaccine will implant a microchip. Dude, I know your smoking history and I'll gladly tell "them" everything they want to know. And you're seventy six; "they" can easily run you down. Goodbye, it was nice knowing you (actually, it wasn't, because you're an idiot, but I'm being diplomatic).
I'M SPECIAL! I'M PURE!
Another person volunteered that she won't get the vaccine because she doesn't "do chemicals", and she used to have an allergic reaction whenever she got the flu shot. I know what she eats; she definitely does do chemicals. But she's relying on ginger, turmeric, cayenne, and apple cider vinegar (btw: she gets the flu very badly each year).
MY PRECIOUS BODILY FLUIDS!
This one is convinced that the vaccine will alter his DNA. Listen, buster, your wife is waaaaay past child-bearing age, what the heck are you planning? And does your wife know?
IT'S THEM! THEY PLANNED THIS!
Apparently people of a certain religious derivation finalized their dastardly plan, and this will lead to world domination. No, not the Mormons.
BILL GATES!
'Nuff said. This one is a moron.
I KNOW MORE THAN ACTUAL DOCTORS
"I'm in the healthcare field. No way am I taking it!" And I keenly wish to know precisely where this one works, so I can avoid that place like the plague. He's a blithering jackass.
IT'S AN EXPERIMENT IN POPULATION CONTROL
In your case, they should have started that fifty years ago.
THEY CAN'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!
Don't cross on red. Pull tab to open. Caution, hot surface.
At work, you don't always have a choice about the people who talk. So unfortunately I cannot say "listen buster, you are a fool and also an a**hole. You poison the air in your immediate vicinity just by being alive. Please shut up, for the love of dog shut up, shut the hell up".
Not getting the vaccine makes them more likely to die soon.
That's cool. I'm totally fine with that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Can you tell that I'm a little peeved?
Over the past few days I've had conversations with people who will refuse the vaccine.
Herewith a sampling, representative of modern society.
MICRO CHIP MAN
A person whom I know because of work is convinced that the vaccine will implant a microchip. Dude, I know your smoking history and I'll gladly tell "them" everything they want to know. And you're seventy six; "they" can easily run you down. Goodbye, it was nice knowing you (actually, it wasn't, because you're an idiot, but I'm being diplomatic).
I'M SPECIAL! I'M PURE!
Another person volunteered that she won't get the vaccine because she doesn't "do chemicals", and she used to have an allergic reaction whenever she got the flu shot. I know what she eats; she definitely does do chemicals. But she's relying on ginger, turmeric, cayenne, and apple cider vinegar (btw: she gets the flu very badly each year).
MY PRECIOUS BODILY FLUIDS!
This one is convinced that the vaccine will alter his DNA. Listen, buster, your wife is waaaaay past child-bearing age, what the heck are you planning? And does your wife know?
IT'S THEM! THEY PLANNED THIS!
Apparently people of a certain religious derivation finalized their dastardly plan, and this will lead to world domination. No, not the Mormons.
BILL GATES!
'Nuff said. This one is a moron.
I KNOW MORE THAN ACTUAL DOCTORS
"I'm in the healthcare field. No way am I taking it!" And I keenly wish to know precisely where this one works, so I can avoid that place like the plague. He's a blithering jackass.
IT'S AN EXPERIMENT IN POPULATION CONTROL
In your case, they should have started that fifty years ago.
THEY CAN'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!
Don't cross on red. Pull tab to open. Caution, hot surface.
At work, you don't always have a choice about the people who talk. So unfortunately I cannot say "listen buster, you are a fool and also an a**hole. You poison the air in your immediate vicinity just by being alive. Please shut up, for the love of dog shut up, shut the hell up".
Not getting the vaccine makes them more likely to die soon.
That's cool. I'm totally fine with that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 13, 2021
THE MIND BUBBLES
After a day's work I am not the most sociable of men. What I want upon getting home is a hot beverage (caffeinated), maybe something to eat, and the freedom to read. I do not need overmuch conversation, or an alcoholic beverage. Understandably then, I view the drinkers down the street enjoying outdoor seating at a local bar with considerable jaundice.
Gentlepersons, you are all gigantic blistering idiots.
And some of you will catch Covid.
Yes, I know. It's Saturday night, and some of you wish to engage in procreative behaviours. Can't you do that quietly and alone?
My work necessitates conversation. It is frequently more content rich, more interesting, and quite devoid of procreative intent. Participants leave satisfied. No alcohol changed hands.
Sometimes smoking equipment and tobacco is involved.
The pipe shown here is one that I've had for many years. It shows up in the few photos of me in what could be assumed to be a social environment, though I am not visibly socializing. There is, in fact, scant photographic evidence that I have ever socialized.
People with Aspergers syndrome do not feel the need to record their social encounters.
We were there. Isn't that enough?
The last times that I went to a local bar I would leave my drink on the counter, and go outside to smoke. A pipe can take up to an hour, depending on bowl size, and even smaller briars can easily occupy a half hour span. Clearly I was not there to engage in karaoke singing, procreative chit chat, or discussions of sports and politics with random strangers.
There was a time at the Edinburgh Castle on Geary street that I had gone into the front room to enjoy a smoke. A young lady came in after me, sat down on the couch, and started making suggestive small talk. Seeing as I was in a relationship at the time, and have never engaged in spur of the moment procreative acts, and certainly not with strangers, I brushed off her every approach. Finally she flopped out a breast and started massaging her nipple.
She asked "are you threatened by my femininity?"
No ma'am. Appalled.
I remember the event, but I cannot recall what her face or her breast looked like. Unfortunately I cannot remember the pipe or the tobacco either. It must have been an English blend -- what in England they call Oriental or Balkan -- because that was when you could still smoke in a bar in San Francisco. Which was before I started smoking mostly Virginias and Virginia and Perique mixtures. Seeing as the Edinburgh Castle at that time was full-tilt Scottish themed, the beverage will have been a single malt. Loch DenIb Qatlh. Or something.
I'm certain that I enjoyed the drink.
When having a glass of Loch DenIb Qatlh, do not add ice. Though a teaspoon of branch water is okay, as it redistributes the lighter elements (oils?) that cause an irridescence on the surface of the liquor. You don't want them to flee too soon.
Scotch whisky and Oriental blends both smell of terpeneols, which the smoke curing imparts to the product. Hence a similarity of fragrance, an overlap of the Venn diagram if you will. Which should automatically remind you of Lapsang Souchong tea, a hot caffeinated beverage.
I don't know about other people, but none of this reminds me of breasts.
Breasts are good too.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Gentlepersons, you are all gigantic blistering idiots.
And some of you will catch Covid.
Yes, I know. It's Saturday night, and some of you wish to engage in procreative behaviours. Can't you do that quietly and alone?
My work necessitates conversation. It is frequently more content rich, more interesting, and quite devoid of procreative intent. Participants leave satisfied. No alcohol changed hands.
Sometimes smoking equipment and tobacco is involved.
We were there. Isn't that enough?
The last times that I went to a local bar I would leave my drink on the counter, and go outside to smoke. A pipe can take up to an hour, depending on bowl size, and even smaller briars can easily occupy a half hour span. Clearly I was not there to engage in karaoke singing, procreative chit chat, or discussions of sports and politics with random strangers.
There was a time at the Edinburgh Castle on Geary street that I had gone into the front room to enjoy a smoke. A young lady came in after me, sat down on the couch, and started making suggestive small talk. Seeing as I was in a relationship at the time, and have never engaged in spur of the moment procreative acts, and certainly not with strangers, I brushed off her every approach. Finally she flopped out a breast and started massaging her nipple.
She asked "are you threatened by my femininity?"
No ma'am. Appalled.
I remember the event, but I cannot recall what her face or her breast looked like. Unfortunately I cannot remember the pipe or the tobacco either. It must have been an English blend -- what in England they call Oriental or Balkan -- because that was when you could still smoke in a bar in San Francisco. Which was before I started smoking mostly Virginias and Virginia and Perique mixtures. Seeing as the Edinburgh Castle at that time was full-tilt Scottish themed, the beverage will have been a single malt. Loch DenIb Qatlh. Or something.
I'm certain that I enjoyed the drink.
When having a glass of Loch DenIb Qatlh, do not add ice. Though a teaspoon of branch water is okay, as it redistributes the lighter elements (oils?) that cause an irridescence on the surface of the liquor. You don't want them to flee too soon.
Scotch whisky and Oriental blends both smell of terpeneols, which the smoke curing imparts to the product. Hence a similarity of fragrance, an overlap of the Venn diagram if you will. Which should automatically remind you of Lapsang Souchong tea, a hot caffeinated beverage.
I don't know about other people, but none of this reminds me of breasts.
Breasts are good too.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 12, 2021
CODDLED FINGERS
Yesterday was food-centric. It wasn't supposed to be, but after shopping in Chinatown my fingers were blue-grey (Raynaud's), so I went directly home. Cooking lunch warmed them up enough that they looked normal again. As you would expect, I'm keenly looking forward to the outside temperature minus wind chill etcetera being consistently over fifty seven degrees Fahrenheit. Preferably up to sixty, sixty two or three.
Later I went out with a thicker coat and gloves. Smoked one of my dad's old pipes.
When I got home, tea, and reading about food.
It's a consuming passion.
Forgive the joke.
Food is comfort. Food is life. Food is circulation in the fingers.
MASALAS FROM SEVERAL YEARS AGO ON THIS BLOG
There is a recipe for Parsi dhansak masala that's far more authentic than the commonly posted weird substitute.
This is Bawaji's Mom's Version:
One teaspoon Methi (Fenugreek) seeds
Half teaspoon Cumin seeds
4 Cloves
2 Cardamoms (green)
Half inch stick cinnamon
Six to seven dry red chilies (more like chile d'arbol than other)
One clove garlic
One and a half to two teaspoons dhana-jeera masala (add when frying paste).
My own version is as follows:
9 Dry chilies (Guajillo or New Mexico chiles secos).
Two and a half TBS coriander seed.
One and a half TBS cumin seed.
One TBS whole peppercorns.
Half a TBS fennel seed.
Half a TBS black mustard seed.
Half a TBS fenugreek seed.
Three Tej Patta (cassia leaves - omit if unavailable).
Three green cardamom pods, seeds only.
One black cardamom pod, seeds, only.
One three-inch stick of cinnamon.
One star-anise pod.
Nine whole cloves.
One Tsp. mace.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Later I went out with a thicker coat and gloves. Smoked one of my dad's old pipes.
It's a consuming passion.
Forgive the joke.
Food is comfort. Food is life. Food is circulation in the fingers.
MASALAS FROM SEVERAL YEARS AGO ON THIS BLOG
There is a recipe for Parsi dhansak masala that's far more authentic than the commonly posted weird substitute.
This is Bawaji's Mom's Version:
One teaspoon Methi (Fenugreek) seeds
Half teaspoon Cumin seeds
4 Cloves
2 Cardamoms (green)
Half inch stick cinnamon
Six to seven dry red chilies (more like chile d'arbol than other)
One clove garlic
One and a half to two teaspoons dhana-jeera masala (add when frying paste).
My own version is as follows:
9 Dry chilies (Guajillo or New Mexico chiles secos).
Two and a half TBS coriander seed.
One and a half TBS cumin seed.
One TBS whole peppercorns.
Half a TBS fennel seed.
Half a TBS black mustard seed.
Half a TBS fenugreek seed.
Three Tej Patta (cassia leaves - omit if unavailable).
Three green cardamom pods, seeds only.
One black cardamom pod, seeds, only.
One three-inch stick of cinnamon.
One star-anise pod.
Nine whole cloves.
One Tsp. mace.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 11, 2021
SO NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN!
Walking around the neighborhood late, long after nightfall. There are few people about, even down at the bar on the corner where they have fire baskets for warmth. Three Mexicans across the street were having a cheerful conversation with beers and masks. Two women at the bus stop recognized me, we exchanged greetings.
好耐冇見 ('hou noi mou kin'), haven't seen you in a long time!
係啊，一年 ('hai ah, yat nin'), indeed, a whole year!
The last time I saw either of them was before lockdown, when I was heading into Chinatown to meet a friend. Whom I also have not seen for that long, but we keep in contact on Facebook.
I am sincerely glad to see that the two of them appear to be well.
Having wished them a good new year, I continued my walk.
Both of them work nearby, in the food service industry. Which has been hit rather hard these past severeal months. So I would imagine that they have become primary breadwinners for their families, but make considerably less than they used to, which probably wasn't much to begin with.
Many people I know are in that exact same demographic. Food industry Cantonese American. I'm glad to see that most of them are holding their head above the water, but I sincerely wish the "flood" didn't come up so high. Down from the high-end restauarants, which charge enough that only doctors, lawyers, and computer programmers can afford to eat there, the profits of the SF food-industry are not particularly good. It's a job, but realistically it's a lousy job. Especially at most ethnic cuisine eateries other than Sushi and French, of course.
Places where white Americans are accustomed to cheap food.
And balk at paying Caucasian labour prices.
Because, you know, because!
I rarely ate out with other people before the pandemic, as I prefer Chinese or Indonesian food, not every one's cup of tea, and my fellow Caucasians who have not been in the food service industry usually don't understand tipping. 'Surely ten percent on a chow mein tab is enough?' Actually, it isn't. That would be a buck, rounding up. Perhaps you should consider contributing a five dollar bill to the tip? If your bill came to less than fifteen bucks, no one is getting rich here, and your utensils have to be bussed and cleaned after you leave, the table has to be wiped and made spotless, and the next white person is probably a cheapskate, might even be a European who doesn't believe in tipping.
Before Covid I budgetted tips at Chinese restaurants and chachantengs at thirty to forty percent of the bill. Two or three dollars at bakeries and self service counters. Those people have to live too, and I wish to remembered as an all-right guy the next time I go there.
Rather than the usual cheap mofo who is rude and leaves a mess.
I am looking forward to being able to do that again.
Good people, atmosphere, and food.
Hardly ever did I eat Sushi or French food.
Too much bourgeois snootiness.
You pay for that.
AFTER WORD
A black woman at the drugstore complimented me on my pipe. She likes old school briars like that. She still has her grandfather's pipe, at home, where her parents live. If she's not opposed to tobacco and open to suggestions, I may eventually talk her into smoking it occasionally, and give her some pointers on suitable tobacco mixtures, keeping it lit and enjoying the experience, and the necessary cleaning, because a clean pipe is a happy pipe.
And pipes bring back memories and moods.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
好耐冇見 ('hou noi mou kin'), haven't seen you in a long time!
係啊，一年 ('hai ah, yat nin'), indeed, a whole year!
The last time I saw either of them was before lockdown, when I was heading into Chinatown to meet a friend. Whom I also have not seen for that long, but we keep in contact on Facebook.
I am sincerely glad to see that the two of them appear to be well.
Having wished them a good new year, I continued my walk.
Both of them work nearby, in the food service industry. Which has been hit rather hard these past severeal months. So I would imagine that they have become primary breadwinners for their families, but make considerably less than they used to, which probably wasn't much to begin with.
Many people I know are in that exact same demographic. Food industry Cantonese American. I'm glad to see that most of them are holding their head above the water, but I sincerely wish the "flood" didn't come up so high. Down from the high-end restauarants, which charge enough that only doctors, lawyers, and computer programmers can afford to eat there, the profits of the SF food-industry are not particularly good. It's a job, but realistically it's a lousy job. Especially at most ethnic cuisine eateries other than Sushi and French, of course.
Places where white Americans are accustomed to cheap food.
And balk at paying Caucasian labour prices.
Because, you know, because!
I rarely ate out with other people before the pandemic, as I prefer Chinese or Indonesian food, not every one's cup of tea, and my fellow Caucasians who have not been in the food service industry usually don't understand tipping. 'Surely ten percent on a chow mein tab is enough?' Actually, it isn't. That would be a buck, rounding up. Perhaps you should consider contributing a five dollar bill to the tip? If your bill came to less than fifteen bucks, no one is getting rich here, and your utensils have to be bussed and cleaned after you leave, the table has to be wiped and made spotless, and the next white person is probably a cheapskate, might even be a European who doesn't believe in tipping.
Before Covid I budgetted tips at Chinese restaurants and chachantengs at thirty to forty percent of the bill. Two or three dollars at bakeries and self service counters. Those people have to live too, and I wish to remembered as an all-right guy the next time I go there.
Rather than the usual cheap mofo who is rude and leaves a mess.
I am looking forward to being able to do that again.
Good people, atmosphere, and food.
Hardly ever did I eat Sushi or French food.
Too much bourgeois snootiness.
You pay for that.
AFTER WORD
A black woman at the drugstore complimented me on my pipe. She likes old school briars like that. She still has her grandfather's pipe, at home, where her parents live. If she's not opposed to tobacco and open to suggestions, I may eventually talk her into smoking it occasionally, and give her some pointers on suitable tobacco mixtures, keeping it lit and enjoying the experience, and the necessary cleaning, because a clean pipe is a happy pipe.
And pipes bring back memories and moods.
==========================================================================
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,...
