THE LOGISTICS OF CAKE

There is NO logical connection between coffee crunch cake and Kai Tak Airport. Except.
The most loved coffee crunch cake is made by a bakery in Chinatown, whose owners are Cantonese from South America. For two generations, the Filippinos down on Kearny Street, in what was then known as Manila Town patronized the place, and after the last vestige had been erased with the tearing down of the International Hotel, they and their children were still loyal customers. Some of the pilots who flew for Philippine Airlines had aunties all over the world. And a delicious cake from a distant place is, of course, a perfect pasalubong.

The plane should have arrived four hours earlier, but P.A.L. had a hard-earned reputation: plane ALWAYS late. And four hours is not that bad. My first trip to Manila was delayed an entire day. Which did not particularly surprise the folks who picked me up at the airport.

On this trip, someone in Kowloon was getting a coffee crunch cake. Courtesy of flight crew and pilot, and a designated on-board fridge. My involvement was limited to picking up the cake in San Francisco while temporarily back home.

So I picked up two: I had a personal interest in at least one of them getting to kowloon.

The steep turn and descent to runway 13 could give one palpitations.

Refrigerators with cakes are supposed to be completely level, or as nearly so as possible. This wasn't even close. I could imagine all kinds of damage.

The five pounds of Peets coffee were good. Beans are perfectly fine at a diagonal.
I just hoped they hadn't slammed down into the cake.
It would have been a pity.


The cake arrived okay.
I am a god.



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

FLORIDA, MISSISSIPPI, TEXAS, ETCETERA

A partisan judge appointed by Trump has effectively struck down the travel mask mandate. Which is good. Because Magatrash travelling, becoming infected, and spreading a deadly virus to their relatives and friends can in the long run only have a beneficial effect. A few innocent people will die, but that's a small price to pay considering the end result.

In particular, the following states should suffer massive numbers of disease overwhelming their healthcare systems: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Indiana, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nevada, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia, West Virginia, and Wyoming. Plus some other places: Los Angeles, Orange County, Philadelphia, San Diego, and Eastern Oregon.


These are all places that I have no wish to ever visit. They are filled with salt of the earth real Americans. Gun nuts, truckers, Christians, Fox News watchers, and Alex Jones acolytes.

A part of the country where people dress funny, smell bad, and eat too much.

All deeply, treacherously un-American territories.


Here's an inspirational quote, which perfectly expresses my regard for American society:
"I believe in Malthusianism. I also believe in cigarettes, cholesterol, alcohol, carbon monoxide, masturbation, the Arts Council, nuclear weapons, the Daily Telegraph, and not properly labeling fatal poisons, but, above all else, most of all, I believe in the ONE thing that can come out of people's mouths: vomit!" [Philip E. Marlow, in The Singing Detective.]

By the way: this country is filled with sh*tty pizza.
Something ought to be done about that.

Yeah, I read the news again.
Those people. Dang.



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

OH BOY, DUMPLINGS!

Several years ago I lived closer to Kearny and Jackson Streets, and there were three places where one could get northern style dumplings late at night. You'd take a break from reading, pack a pipe and a pouch of tobacco in a coat pocket, and head over to any one of them. You might also put the book in the other pocket, because from order to eat would be twenty minutes, which is a mighty long time by yourself.

You could be wired to the eyebrows on the pot of tea by then.

A small dipping saucer would be ready, red vinegar, soy sauce, chili paste were on the table, and you'd look forward to hot juicy chives and pork (or cabbage and pork -- different place) wrapped in a tender dough skin.

Every Chinese mom makes dumplings.
Not all restaurants do.

And Cantonese people have never quite developed a taste for the northern 蒸餃 ('jeng gaau'; zhēngjiǎo) of the long winter and the cold. Which starts just below Shanghai and continues up beyond Shenyang. The Shanghainese make good dumplings. So do mainland exiles in Taiwan. They are also popular in Japan and Korea I've heard.

There are only two places that I now know in Chinatown that do them. There are probably more, but I refuse to patronize the popular and overpriced Szechuan-Hunan joints that cater to westerners (only somewhat because my Cantonese is not understood there).

["Speak English white man! We're from Nikeng Zhou (泥坑州) and can't understand that fake Chinese you're trying!"]

The Bund Shanghai Restaurant (上海飯店 'seung hoi faan dim') does have a number of staff members who speak Cantonese, and they do rather splendid renditions of Wu (吳 'ng') and Hu (滬 'wu') dishes, though Shanghai borscht is not one of them -- that's more of a Hong Kong thing really -- and neither are the nice greasy eels or the crabs and carp. Those require types of water beast not available on this side of the Pacific. But I highly recommend them. And their tung po pork (東坡肉 'tung po yiuk') is stellar.


There is nothing quite so heavenly as dumplings dipped in chili paste and vinegar.


It started raining after eleven a clock last night, which woke me up. A plate of dumplings would have been wonderful, but my apartment mate has rather overloaded the deepfreeze, so I can't buy frozen ones for future snacking until some of that stuff has been eaten.


We're not going to run out of food soon in this household.



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

THINK ABOUT FRENCH TOAST

They're closing permanently in less than a week, as their social media announcement made clear. Having been a customer for ever a decade, I am of course sad to see them go. The owner retired four or five years ago, as did the long-time main woman on the floor about two years ago. But the daughter ran the place until Covid and the City of San Francisco together combined to be a pain in the nethers, and despite a valiant attempt to keep the aspidistra flying they decided to throw in the towel.

A typical Hong Kong chachanteng. With interesting stuff on the menu.
I decided to go there for old-time's sake.

Shortly after I had ordered meatball congee (肉丸粥 'yiuk yuen juk') and a fried dough stick (油條 'yau tiu') they informed me that there was no more congee (冇粥 'mou juk'). No problem (冇問題 'mou man tai'), I'll have the salmon fried rice (三文魚炒飯 'saam man yü chaau faan'). A few seconds later: "mou yi si" (冇意思), "saam man yü maai saai le" (三文魚賣曬了！)"!"
Okay, how about seafood fried rice (海鮮炒飯 'hoi sin chaau faan'). That was doable.

I'll probably go there again before the weekend. See if they can still do a club sandwich (公司三明治 'gong si saam ming ji'). Might be iffy.
Maybe french toast.
西多士。

[Hong Kong French Toast ('sai do si') is two slices of white bread glued together with peanut butter, battered and fried, served with a pat of melting butter, and a cruet of golden syrup on the side. Sometimes it is also drizzled with chocolate syrup and sweetened condensed milk. Ask your doctor about this, then watch his or her face.]


Ran into Ah Choi while smoking a pipe outside afterwards.
Apparently he gave up ciggies three years ago.
The taxes probably got to him.
Prohibitive now.

PLUS DEODORANT FROM THE SEVENTIES!

Fortunately I stockpiled enough pipe tobacco over the years that that is not an issue for me. The tin with the tipsy looking frog on the label above is evidence of that. McClelland, which made the product, closed their doors over foor years ago, and regular smokers of their blends were bereft. Despondent. Despairingly operatic. Quite desolated.
It was a good afternoon.



By the way, there are too many white people in Chinatown. Between the maskless tourists gaily spreading disease and the crazy man in Portsmouth Square who screamed at me, the place is changing. The police really ought to do something about them.
There should be only one Caucasian there.

Me.



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

NO COBB SALAD EVEN AFTER COFFEE

Okay, I'll admit that today's first venture into the interwebs with "opinions" was unpleasantly meanspirited. Even though I'll blame the grumpiness that comes naturally with waking up cold and alone in a dark uncaring universe, as well as displeasure at being ripped from warm comforting dreams in which everybody spoke Dutch. And it was before I had had my first cup of coffee or a walk with a pipe. I'm not fully human until then.

I still don't like the rest of this country, or the world.
Y'all dress funny, smell bad, and eat too much.
Plus far too many of you are scrotums.



In something totally unrelated, let's talk about 'Normal Old Dude', who spent several hours where I work recently. That being the care facility for retired old farts who smell bad. He likes to watch women's tennis, golf, the horse races, basketball, shows about pawnbrokers, and two naked men in the wilderness where there are bears who might have a chainsaw. All of which involve muscled bare legs and shorts. Plus sweat. The other day he tried placing an order to go for half a cobb salad, and a chopped salad with salami substituted for chicken, extra dressing no spices, plus bread sticks with butter. With butter. Bread sticks with butter. Half a cobb salad and a chopped salad with salami substituted for chicken extra dressing no spices plus bread sticks with butter! Salami instead of chicken! Cheese. Cobb salad, half, chopped salad with salami, extra dressing no spices, no spices, bread sticks with butter. Bread sticks with butter. Butter. Butter. Butter. Breadsticks. Thank you. Half an hour.
It took five phone calls, and I don't think they were messing with him.
That's twenty minutes we'll never get back.

From Wikipedia: "The Cobb salad is a main-dish American garden salad typically made with chopped salad greens (iceberg lettuce, watercress, endives and romaine lettuce), tomato, crisp bacon, fried chicken breast, hard-boiled eggs, avocado, chives, blue cheese, and red-wine vinaigrette." End cite.


Normal Old Dude is several years my senior. He leads such an exciting life. I have never had a Cobb Salad. My salads are blanched vegetables still crisp enough with spicy dressings that contain peanuts, hot chili paste, tamarind, and fish sauce. Plus only a touch of palm sugar. Acceptable shortcuts are a small amount of peanut butter, a very large quantity of jarred sambal, and a hefty squeeze of lime juice. Lalap, tjagaroan, gado gado, petjel, lotek, or similar preparations. Easy to do casual snacky home style. Kind of Indo.
The Cobb salad sounds far too complicated.

I suspect Normal Old Dude would quail at the thought.
It is doubtful that he knows about sambal.
Which goes with everything.

If it weren't for Huy Fong Foods and their excellent products, life in this country would be impossible. That, those, plus strong tea, buttered toast, fine British marmalade, anchovy paste, and flake tobacco for my pipe, keep me going.

As well as Chinese bakeries with such lovely things as egg tarts, old wife cake, flaky charsiu turnovers, red bean biscuits, paper wrapped cupcakes, scallion buns, pork floss rolls, deep fried sesame balls, little chicken pot pies ........


My legs are decent. Fairly muscled, not sweaty, rarely bare.
Shorts on mature men are in bad taste.



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

YOU ARE ALL SUBURBANITES OR WORSE

While in America and Western Europe Christians were celebrating Easter and Jews were enjoying Pesach, the rest of the world was basically an asshole. Well, specifically India and Africa were. India has Hindutva, which is like Naziism with horrific excesses kept just under the radar of Western news Organizations, and Africa's regular atrocities are no longer news worthy if they ever were. Latin America is also pretty bad, but that's largely due to inefficiency and the fact that every. Single. South. American. Country. Is. A. Narco. Klept. Ocracy.


Japan seems to be the only non-western country that's got its sh*t together. Whereas the United States have large areas which are basically sh*thole. Northern California and a few areas in the North East are okay. The rest verges on garbage populated by illiterates and trailerparkers. Which is actually exactly what Florida, Mississippi, and Texas are all about.


You know, there are jolly good reasons why many of us in Northern California sneer at the rest of the country. You guys suck.


So do we -- Oakland and Berkeley are hell holes, like all of the East Bay, and once you get to the Central Valley it's all Deliverance country -- but not as badly. North of Sacramento it's just Bundy till you get to the congenital alcoholics of Washington and Idaho. Southern California is nothing but plastic surgery and slutwear consumerists. Junkfood and sick little islands of diseased sexual profligacy till you hit the religious heartland where bookburning, incest, and Trumpism, are rife. Then, right before you hit the Atlantic, a few places where people are insanely proud of sh*tty pizza. Plus some rabid Marielitos in the dangling chad.

What keeps me grounded in a universe dominated by humans is strong tea, buttered toast, Sriracha hot sauce, fine British marmalade, flake tobacco for my pipe, and a few tins of sardines. Plus anchovy paste. Jolly good stuff, that. Anchovy paste.



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

A COMPLETE ABSENCE OF 'URK'

At precisely two thirty, give or take ten minutes, the 菠蘿叉燒包 come out of the oven, hot and fresh. Delicious! Worth waiting a little bit for. Unfortunately, a lot of other people know that too. So if you arrive early, you can sit. Otherwise you'll be fighting the locals for space. No, I shall not mention where this is, because I don't need any competition for seating.
The milk tea is excellent too, by the way.

A pipe smoked afterward, perhaps while ambling along Waverly, is a joyous occasion.


The fresh 蛋撻 are ready at around five-ish. I only mention this so that you will be more inclined to go there later. I really do not need competition for the seats.
Or noise. I don't like noise.

Because the place had filled up with Toishanese speakers I did not dawdle but finished my snack and beverage and left. There were also too many of my fellow 鬼佬 there by then.
I may have mentioned that I don't like competition?


The title of this post refers to the sound I sometimes make upon arriving home. Both my apartment mate and myself have gotten into the habit of making little noises when entering, because what with both being on the spectrum and slightly deaf, we startle easily. The sounds are variously 'urk', 'naarp', 'baah' or 'beh', plus 'oop ack'. That last being copied from Bloom County's resident headbanger dissolute feline, Bill The Cat.
I am more likely to do that last one.
But today, it was 'urk'.


There was nobody home. So no response. Earlier she had been speculating about earwax. Did Christ have earwax? Did the Habsburgs? And what was it like? According to her, white people's earwax is gummy and yellow, often rancid or smelly, whereas East Asian earwax (hers) is more of a fine semi-crystaline substance, and often looks like origami when extracted. And really, I should look this up on my computer.

When I protested that she too had a computer in front of her she objected that her computer was reserved for clean pure subjects, like estate jewelry shopping and educational youtube videos. So mine was better. And I should also look up "celebrity boogers".

No. I do not wish to know what Will Smith and Jada Pinkett's boogers are like. Or Kardasian nose crap. Not my interests. Nor the reliquaries holding Elvis Presley's extrudite.


There are four things that keep growing throughout life.
The prostate, the ears, and the nose.
And lobsters.



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

WHAT A PERFECT SUNLIT DAY TASTES LIKE

When I woke up it was with a vivid beautiful dream still playing. Sunlight, late breakfast at a non-existent Anglo Indian hotel in Chinatown. Keema, flaky kulchas, achar pulgobi, and a cup masala chai. I complimented the proprietess on getting the operation up and running in such exemplary fashion in so short a time. Of course there is no such place. No sunlit dining room. No Anglo Indian hotel, alas. And no place near Grant Avenue or Waverly with excellent keema (no damned peas) or hot strong masala chai. No flaky kulcha.

The first problem with keema at most places is the peas. Keema matar is okay, but Indians are way too fond of peas (matar), and will throw the blighters into anything that moves. The second is that the ground meat used for keema is often from the fatty part of the beast, and the resultant dish too greasy to go well with nice flaky kulcha or buttery naan. This breakfast would be heavy enough for a Midwestern farmer, but I couldn't possibly hack it.
A Parsee would probably add a poached egg or two on top.
No, most Parsees are not rotund.


It was a very intense dream. I still have the taste of the keema and kulcha in my mouth.


Why isn't there an Anglo Indian Hotel in Chinatown? There's a Nepali grocery. There used to be an Indian restaurant. There are tourists. And there is, in fact, a hotel where visitors might stay. Two of them. One international luxury standard digs, so the usual "five star" quality that Americans feel comfortable and secure about (bland neutrality, sumptuously unappetizing breakfast food), and the other hotel smaller and more interesting looking, like a place where middle aged Europeans, Parsees, elderly Hong Kong businessmen, and Dutch Indonesian exiles might feel comfortable.
There is actually a third one, but it's right on the border, and late night hamburger or pizza eaters remember it from a previous life. Hard to even guess what it's like. It has garage facilities, so it probably caters to Americans.


The only two Indian restaurants arguably near Chinatown now, are one place which doesn't change the tablecloths often enough, and another which is a skeevy halal place probably connected to that nasty little Uttar Pradeshi cook with whom I used to work, so I will never go there because I might get poisoned. I do not want to get poisoned. It would interact badly with the medications that currently give me such vivid dreams. A bad idea.
I once argued with and fiercely shook the blighter.
Plus I distrust his unclean habits.


The very best kulchas, by the way, were made by a Mexican who has gone back to Mexico City and now probably runs an eatery staffed by his children and other relatives.

The only part of the dream which can translate into reality is the pipe I intend to smoke after breakfast (late lunch). A very snazzy Italian number, jaunty and suitable for a sporty man. Which I am. Got a proper tweedy coat too, which would go with that image, which I shan't put on today because instead I'm wearing a sweater and intend to have the somewhat ratty coat with the multiple pockets in which briar and tobacco pouch fit. Milk tea and a snack somewhere. No keema, no roti pao.



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

TORTURING CHRISTIANS

A friend posted a video of Christians singing about Jesus during a plane flight. Where presumably the other passengers were normal people, who were subjected to this.

As a descendant of several generations of stubborn pissants, whose ancestral nation was A) sodden with religious nuts, B) fought the Spanish for eighty years (De Tachtig Jarige Oorlog), and C) someone who was told on a regular basis until I returned to the United States that I would burn in hell, this would make me incredibly unpleasant and Karen for the rest of that flight. I would probably be arrested upon landing, and I would certainly sue the airline and everybody I could afterwards.

Christians with guitars are a reason for war.


They should make me a Sunday school teacher. There is enough bloody psycho shiznit in 'the good book' that I could turn an entire village worth of little children off religion simply by reading aloud.


By the way: television preachers are thieves.
They should all be shot.



The war on Christmas starts with a single step.




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

WHAT, IT'S LABOR DAY ALREADY?!?

As I do every morning, I stepped out of the house with a pipe. Gentleman across the street vocalizing (sing-moaning) into a parking meter opposite my building. Drugs? A fit? spiritual agony? Angst? Sometimes I do not know what to make of this city.

Perhaps he was lamenting the death of our lord and saviour the Easter Bunny. Who will be reborn tomorrow morning in time to deliver painted eggs, after which we'll kill him and have rabbit stew for dinner.

As you can tell, I'm just filled with holiday spirit. Overflowing with it.



Not as bad as some people, who have been singing Easter Carols for over a month now.
And hanging festive wreaths of cucumbers and dried fish around the house.

Plus adding food colouring to the egg nog. As per ancient tradition.
Little kiddies just love sampling coloured egg nog.
The more colours, the more sampling.
And the merrier.



The aromas of nutmeg, cloves, and cinnamon, fill the houses.
Bay leaves, and garlic. Perhaps junniper berries.

Everybody has their own festive family recipe for jugged hare.



As you can tell, I'm not buying into this made-up holiday.
It's just another excuse for frat boys to get drunk.




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

START THE DAY WITH DARK ARTS

Years ago this would not have happened. Back then, products had sensible names that suggested fine middle class values. Thompson's Gut Spackle, for instance, or Smithfelder Mushroom Enhancement. As used in many of the finest Midwestern households.

The rot started with Lord Of The Rings. As well as Sherlock Holmes.
Products deliberately calling forth an image of Hobbits.
Plus Baker Street and Persian slippers.

Because people are obsessive. And childish.
And have buckets of disposable income.

Personally, I think any products that radiate a fictional character image are too damned precious, and should be avoided. Mrs' Tiggy Winkles Mint Julep Mix. With a porcupine on the label. Eric The Red India Pale Ale. Sir Winston's Boot Blacking.

Bilbo Baggin's Chamomile Tea. Bilbo Baggin's Ham Rub. Bilbo Baggin's Celebratory Fruitcake. Bilbo Baggin's Christmas Ale. Bilbo Baggin's Tinned Sardines. Bilbo Baggin's Velvet Breaches. Bilbo Baggin's Peach Preserves.


Hobbit's Weed.


The above named product hides a ghastly aromatic tobacco concoction extremely popular among bearded gentlemen with piercings, tattoos, far too much male jewelry, and dubious personal habits. Precisely the kind of man who lives for Rennaisance Faires, Robin Hood Days, Pirate Festivals, and See Shanty Shenanigans. They own long churchwarden pipes, and wish they had been born during Victorian times.


So what can I say about a tobacco mixture named 'Plateau Of Leng'?
It's actually a very decent product, despite being described as compounded with a touch of madness, which may be a soupçon of Perique. In addition to Latakia and Turkish, with Virginias (including an unflavoured dark Cavendish) playing supporting roles.

LENG: A GHASTLY UPLAND WHERE REALITY IS DIFFERENT

After the Latakia has kicked you around a bit, the flue-cured leaf starts providing an element of tangy fruitiness. This is a full-bodied smoke. Savoury. Smoky. Sweet. Fermenty.

The name is taken from Lovecraft's writings. There are foul miasmas there.
H. P. Lovecraft wrote lovingly of odious things, because he knew them.



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

GIANT HERDS OF PALE SPONGE

Today is the last day to eat pizza for some people. No, it isn't the end-times, but Passover starts tomorrow evening, and decent bread, pizza, and cookies, are off the table until after dark on the twenty third. A bacon cheese burger is right out, as well as beer, whiskey, and wheatgerm juice. Today is when some people perform bedikas chometz.

[Imagine a note of impending doom right here. It's. The. Last. Day!]

If you were thinking of holding a Christian seder, don't. Not only is doing so ridiculous and offensive, but it's also cultural appropriation. And none of the food you would serve could, by any stretch of the imagination, be considered kosher le pesach.

On the other hand, do please wear your damned mask out in public, especially on the bus. And remember it's damned well useless unless it covers your proboscis. Don't be like those young people and the occasional old fart who show a callous disregard for the safety of others. This ain't Mississippi. Nor Texas.



That maskless droodge thing on public transit is really starting to bother me. There are elderly and immunocompromised people who have to take public transit, and many of the rest of us have no choice either. It's fine that you want to take risks, but for crapssakes, you dumb Texans and Maggaites, show some consideration and decency for the rest of us.
Feel free to kill yourself with a fentanyl overdose.

Honestly, I have no problem with the entire state of Texas gasping desperately for air in the ICU. In Texas. Not here. And fentanyl is faster, aside from totally free enterprise American consumer capitalism in action AND libertarian.
Go ahead; do it.



Despite the maskless cretins, today was a pretty good day. Achy and sore, not enough sleep, because of the second booster shot. But no fever. Went to C'town to pick up my refills (80 MG, 81 MG, 25 MG, 100-25 MG, 5 MG), had lunch, smoked a pipe, and went to my bank. Earlier I got laminated double-sided copies of my vaccine card made.

Though they throng the streets here, there were no dumb-ass Caucasians other than myself at the pharmacy, the restaurant, or the bank.



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

BUS UNCLE, AIRPORT AUNTIE

It's been over a decade and a half, but Bus Uncle is still well worth enjoying. Backstory: middle aged man gets into an altercation with a younger man on public transit, and what starts off as a discussion over the points of contention becomes a remarkable demonstration of the middle aged man pushing the envelope as far as it will go.
With a certain unprintable eloquence.

It's probably one of the best language learning youtubes out there.

His vim is infectious.


Yesterday someone remarked about how she wished to learn Cantonese. Watching movies is a very good way of getting the pronunciation down, but, sadly, there isn't a movie where Bus Uncle goes one for ninety minutes.

So just watch the six minute video fifteen times.


UNCLE: VERBS AND NOUNS!

[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EsYRQkmVifg.]

The other classic of the genre (HK people being gloriously themselves and pulling out all the stops) is, of course, Airport Auntie having a meltdown. She missed her flight. It isn't as eloquent, but it makes up for that with vehemence.

AUNTIE: HOW COME HOW GO?

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


Him, I like. He sounds reasonable. Her? Not so much.
Even under better conditions she migt be a strain.
Still, her kittens are very amusing.



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

THE PLAGUE CARRIERS

Yesterday evening I finally became an adult; despite the temptation to do so, I did not start a nasty comment string that would turn into a bitch war on the internet. But lordy, I was tempted. And no, it was NOT about nostraticism. That too.


The other day I realized that I had no actual plans for when I turned adult.


A friend and I recalled two individuals we knew when we were in North Beach: Degenerate Dave and Drug-addict Dave. Both men are unquestionably adults, if only physically, who had made impressively bad life choices. We're okay with them not being regular presences, and it's not certain that the first mentioned is even still alive.

Of course, if he is, he's still an idiot.
And more repulsive than ever.



As I age, increasingly I take pleasure in not associating with very many people.
Loneliness is okay if it means less lunatics.



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

RED DATE AND CHESTNUT CHICKEN

In another two weeks, I'll be able to do 5G, track the McNugget buying habits of Bill Gates and Hillary Clinton, and do other supermannish things. At least if Qanon and Alex Jones are to be believed. Because I got my second Covid booster. Microchips! X-ray vision!
Plus fraud and conspiracies!

See, my doctor had written out an order for a bloodtest (白血球 'paak huet kau'; leukocytes), and my praescriptions are almost due for refills so I wanted to check to see if that was in process. Plus they do walk-ins for boosters down at the same hospital where the clinic and pharmacy are. One stop shopping, as it were. What a complete blood test would do is indicate whether I have arthritis (節炎 'jit yim') of any type. Which I do.

The leukocyte jab-&-pull tests for bacteriological (細菌嘅 'sai kwan ge') stuff.

[Booster shot: 追加劑 'jeui gaa jai', 加強針 'gaa keung jam'. Get a second booster shot: 接种第二針加强劑 ('jip jung dai yi jam gaa keung jai'). X-ray vision: X光的視覺 ('eks gwong dik si gaau'). Typical red state voter: 偏執型癲佬 ('pin jap ying din lou').]

Not bad for a needle-phobic old boy.

Naturally, while I was in the neighborhood, I had lunch.


While waiting for the bus over the hill I saw a gentleman walking his pet duck on a leash.
Which is not connected in any way with the foregoing, but cute and charming, and the duck and his dog seemed to get along fine.


After lunch smoke:

Post tea time:

紅棗栗子雞

The title of this post comes from what I shall prepare for dinner sometime really soon: red date and chestnut chicken (紅棗栗子雞 'hung jou lut ji gai'). Soak a small handfull (6 - 10) of Chinese dried red dates (紅棗 'hung jou') in warm water for two hours. Slice them open and remove pits, put them back in the water. Shell, clean, and split a somewhat larger measure of fresh chestnuts. Chop half a chicken into bite size pieces. Rinse the chicken, then dust with a little cornflour, pinches of salt and sugar (massaged into the flesh). Let sit for ten minutes. Smash a few cloves garlic, stick-cut two or three scallions, cut three pieces of ginger.

Have in readiness a quarter cup stock or hot water, a quarter cup of rice wine or sherry, a brisk dash of soy sauce, and a dribble of oyster sauce.

Sautee the garlic and ginger till starting to gild, add the chicken pieces. Stir till turning colour, then add the soaked dates, and chestnut pieces. Stirfry over high heat until there is evidence that caramelization is starting to occur, add the sherry or ricewine to flame, then the water or stock plus soy sauce and oyster sauce. Then dump in the scallion segments. Cook quickly while stirring till everything is coated and glazed. Decant and serve.

As with everything, sambal, and chopped cucumbers.
Plus steamed rice.



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

ANYTHING TO AVOID METRIC

How many feet are there in a mile? The math is really very simple. A mile is slightly longer than one point six (1.609) kilometres, ergo 1609 metres (more or less), which equates to 1609 x 1.09632 (yards) x 3 .......... oh screw it, a mile is six thousand bananas, which is the equivalent of one thousand baby dolphins, or two thousand family size pizzas.
See, this is why we have to save the dolphins.
Our system depends on them.

A mile is 5280 feet. The Roman foot was larger than the Anglo Saxon foot. Five thousand Roman feet to a mile. We derive our system from Rome. Like so many other fine things; gladiatorial combat, dictatorships, religious persecution, slavery, and burning cities.


We moved to the Netherlands when I was two. My father was an aeronautical engineer and a draughtsman, my mother had been to Berkeley and had three degrees, and there were a huge number of reference books in our home library. I knew about the American and Imperial system of bananas, dolphins, and pizzas before I returned to the States, but never used it.
Since coming back I've quite often had to employ bananas.

There are ten and a half average rats (or roughly eight large rats) in the picture above.
Same as a baby dolphin, or slightly more.

There are, on average, one and a half rats to a foot.
Ergo four and a half of them to a yard.

A rat weighs one to two times as much as a bacon cheeseburger.



I am quite comfortable with a good bacon cheeseburger (melted blue cheese, mmm), with no onions, but with lots of Sriracha. If the accompanying fries are properly done, it's a meal fit for a consul. Goes great with a glass of Pinot Noir.

It's frustrating dealing with you idiots, but there are rewards.



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

OUR GAILY BUSINESS SUITED VISITORS

A period piece, set after the end of the World War, when the Communists and the Nationalists were in conflict. And it also involved Americans. A striking youngish woman, who we now know was working for the communists, investigates the assassination of an American military officer. Darn well everyone else is also investigating, and none of the various sides are at ease with or in harmony with each other. Several people you originally thought were on one side turn out to be on the other, generations of a family are in distress and at opposite ends, and people find lost relatives or realize what they lost. Good sets, cold weather filming, well done costuming, and atmospheric. Family, friendship, love, high emotion, good versus evil, betrayal, and snazzy clothing. Very stylish, excellent cinematography, in five chapters.

Father's identity: 父親的身份 ('fu chan dik san fan'; "fùqīn de shēnfèn").

Apparently five chapters translates to at least forty hour-long episodes.
One of which was on the teevee in the corner.

With five middle-aged businesmen, probably from the Midwest, wailing karaoke over drinks. So the only way to make sense of the drama onscreen was to read the subtitles and ignore the distinctly undulcet old boy noises. Fortunately they were so off key and out-of-tune that they didn't ruin any songs for us; we couldn't recognize what songs they sang.
You know white folks shouldn't ever sing karaoke, right?
It's nasty and lowers the men's morale.

It's criminal, is what.

From the internet I learn that there are two daughters involved, one father, plus a university professor. There is lying, spying, and conflicts of emotions and ideology, just like Trump's America. In that sense the caterwauling at the other end of the bar was fitting.

In past years the teevee screen now occupied by men and women in uniform had been filled with a buddhist abbot explicating sutras. Over the years we got to see him progress from old geezer with owly eyebrows to relatively young looking middle age, but always with the same serious trustworthy demeanor. No, I have no clue what he was on about.


The borderzone between Chinatown and Northbeach is different these days. Some of the skeeviest businesses catered almost exclusively to out-of-towners, and have closed forever. The emptiness is striking. There are still marginal types and nuts, and businessmen visiting the city still have adventures that they may not clearly remember.
But it's more locals, though less people.

It was quite cold last night while I was enjoying a pipe before meeting the bookseller after he got off work. My finger tips turned blue despite my gloves (Raynaud's syndrome), and I was glad to get back indoors. Weak tea -- Americans do not excell at tea -- made pleasantly puckerish by the bitterness in the peel of a lemon wedge. Fancy water glasses at the bar.
I assume that the Jameson's tasted welcome, though I did not have any myself.
I don't mind the change.

Could have done without the singing. But it's part of the tradition.
Just pretend it's tribals in the hills festivizing.
Midwestern buffalo sacrifice.



It's cold out in the border lands, gringo.
And I can see Russia from here.

If there's an elk sitting in your kitchen just looking at you, you have an infestation, and might as well abandon that apartment. Don't argue, just assume that it's a lost cause, and move.




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

THE INTERNATIONALE

One of my friends is a Republican who has spent time in Hong Kong and hates the commies. A number of other people with whom I am acquainted are also rightwingers (no, they are not friends), and several others are for various reasons opposed to Marxist ideology as well as fellow-travelers of the most reprehensible groups out there.
So naturally, I enjoy pissing them off. Most Americans don't know beans about communism, but because the Repubs have loudly screamed that anything even approaching a sensible healthcare system and a safety net, as well as sustainable wages, are all Communism! Communism! Communism! you will understand that triggering the poor dears is both delicious and a jolly good thing.

Once they all die of apoplexy the rest of us can go about building a better society.

There's a song that will further that noble aim. It will also upset the Taiwanese and the Falun gongists who through their odious propaganda mouthpieces (The World Journal and The Epoch Times) supported Trump and his scumbags, the mainland authorities who insist that they alone represent true social justice, as well as all those snooty Northerners who insist that 'everyone should speak Mandarin there are no other legitimate versions of Chinese like Cantonese, Min, or Shanghainese dammit those are just dialects and anyone who insists otherwise is a capitalist roadster compradore class irridentist'. Splittists!

It will likely also "discomfit" parents and priests.
And many American college boys.


Sadly, it won't do squat as far as making trailer parkers, inbred rednecks, and bible thumpers angry. They're too ignorant and won't recognize the tune (and "it's probably in French").


'英特納雄耐爾'
國際歌 -- 廣東話
THE INTERNATIONALE IN CANTONESE


群眾怒吼聲震裂壁壘，
['kwan jung nou hau seng jan lit bek leui']
烈火般驅走黑夜，
['lit fo bo keui jau haak ye']
連貫歷史的正義呼喊，
['lin gun lik si di jeng yi fu haam']
在今日也呼喚你。
['joi gam yat yaa fu haam']
新天地由我們一手創，
['san tin dei yau ngo mun yat sau chong']
讓人民力量體現，
['yeung yan man lik leung tai yin']
綑鎖與貧窮全部衝破，
['kwan so yue pan kung chuen bou chung po']
流熱血為真理洗擦。
['lau yit huet wai lei sai chaat']

堅守這最後爭鬥，
['gin sau je jeui hou jaang dau']
緊緊結聚為明晨，
['gan gat git jeui wai ming san']
英特納雄耐爾 ，
['ying dak naa hung noi yi'; ("The Internationale");
要實現在這裏。
['yiu sat yin joi je lei']

堅守這最後爭鬥，
['gin sau je jeui hou jaang dau']
緊緊結聚為明天，
['gan gat git jeui wai ming tin']
英特納雄耐爾
['ying dak naa hung noi yi'; ("The Internationale")]
要實現在這裏。
['yiu sat yin joi je lei']

廣州人講廣州話，聽唔明就翻鄉下！

The Internationale is associated with communism, socialism, revolutionary and social justice movements, rebellion against oppressive authority, student and minority political movements, anarchists, atheists, freethinkers, and just generally irritating the powers that be.

The Cantonese language is spoken by troublemakers, stubborn people, and folks upset at the British and other imperialists like Mandarin-speaking carpet-baggers.
As well as the only people who know Chinese cuisine.


It is a very optimistic and rambunctious song.



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