DEEPLY TOUCHING!

Like very many people I've been watching video clips on youtube from the Jurassic Park movies, because there's a new one out. From all the clips the thing that stands out, which very well may be the actual plot, is that when you're in the dark in a claustrophobic space, suddenly teeth appear with savage sounds. Then you panic and scream.
Perhaps you run.

It's probably better to run.

This is a movie with a lot of running.

Probably funded by the exercise industry. Now I myself don't run, because my knees and other leg joints aren't as they were years ago, but I will heartily recommend this movie which I haven't actually seen as wholesome family entertainment which will persuade your young'uns to lead a healthy active life, starting small.

Perhaps it will leave a lasting impression.

Give 'em something to think about.



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WHY HELLO THERE, OILY DUDES!

It stands to reason that if we can harvest the brain farts of Republicans, and isolate the combustible elements, we will solve two birds with one stone. The energy crisis, for one.
It's a resource we haven't fully explored. And we should.


Probably best to start with Arizona, Florida, and Texas.


There is a car from Florida parked right outside my front door. In a spot clearly marked as being for motorbikes only. That's one potential ticket. The front wheels are not angled, so that's another. Their rear end sticks into my landlord's driveway. A third.
This may be an expensive visit to San Francisco.

The car probably belongs to someone visiting the party-hearty bros across the street. It is widely known that people from the great state of Florida are carriers of Xenopsylla cheopis, so that the very least we can expect is a rise in the number of comatose individuals.

I wish the landlord across the street would stop renting to yuppazoid fratt-o-zots. This is the second or third lot since the pandemic started, and like the ones who spent time with covid, they also keep throwing parties.

It's a large part of the reason why I don't like young white people.



On the other hand, during work I babysit the old and depraved, so I don't like elderly white people very much either.

I myself am quite startlingly Caucasoid, but timeless.




Something I realized last week: since the pandemic started, far too many twenty-thirty white guys do not shave often enough, look unkempt, disreputable, and slovenly, and dress in very unique and highly indivualistic ways. And they would do well to cut the cheeseburgers from their diets. Their skin might improve. As, very likely, would their social lives.
Shan't say anything about their unfamiliarity with shampoo.
Or the tattoos of which they are so proud.



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FAR FROM AMSTERDAM

Last night I fixed myself pinda bravoe with yau choi and meatballs. Because I had no baka bana there was no tomtom. It was never the less delicious! If you need to know exactly what that all is, because Sranantongo is not one of your second languages, watch this helpful video: AMARU's Traditional Pinda Bravoe.

Then culturally appropriate like an imperialist, tweak and adapt, reinterpret and freely enjoy. Because life is too short to respectfully ask for permission or invites. Especially when you have all the necessary ingredients in your kitchen, because of course you do.

If you break the Scotch Bonnet, there will be no need for sambal.
And you should probably not kiss anyone afterwards.


Put a Max Nijman or Trafassi record on the Victrola, kick back with a cold bottle of Parbo, and cuddle your fuzzy stuffed anaconda. Wan biggi watrassneki.


Well, okay, Parbo is not available here. And as yet I don't have a stuffed anaconda.



On another food-related note, I stole the photo below from a Parsee on a culinary forum.

It will be confusing to many people in Berkeley.
I shall not explain it.



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OLD MEN DANCING WITH FISH

Unregretfully I realize that after tea time and the relaxed enjoyment of a pipeful of tobacco which follows, I am far less tolerant of tourists and white office droogs than at any other time of day. That's primarily because the Muni bus back across the hill is packet to the skylight with them, and none of the intercoursers are wearing masks. Don't get on, auntie, the bus is filled, none of them are covering their breathing tubes, and half of them probably have asymptomiatic Covid and are spreading it. This vehicle is a floating petri dish.

Auntie is extremely lucky that the bus did not stop anywhere in Chinatown. What with being filled beyond capacity. With mostly maskless Caucasians.

If you stand well in, everybody else is your airbag when the vehicle crashes.
Got a safe impact zone all around me.

Tea time was extremely enjoyable. A woman of indeterminate Asian origin was picking up a birthday cake with durian in it, which totally guarantees that there will be enough left over to take to work the next day. A gentleman whose thick Toishanese patois is nearly unintelligible distributed fish to several of the staff from a bucket at his feet. An older fellow informed me that the pork floss buns used to be a buck fifty, now they're two dollars. Several of the other older gentlemen there finished their coffee and drifted out, leaving a clean silence.
And bakery employees members carried out several beds.

I am unclear why a bakery stocks beds.
Actual beds. Sleeping equipment.
Or why there were fish.

Yeah, okay, I speak Chinese and read it pretty well. That does not mentally prepare me for the sometimes goofy shiznit to which I am exposed. Not always. Yesterday there was an abandoned sewing machine table in the middle of an intersection in Chinatown, today there were beds and fish in a bakery. As well as a durian birthday cake. Who does that? And why? That's a birthday party massacre in the making. Memorable in any case. Durian.

Cheesie ham bun (芝士火腿包 'ji si fo teui baau'), Hong Kong milk tea, pork floss bun (肉鬆包 'yiuk sung baau'). Plus a durian cake 榴蓮蛋糕 'lau lin daan gou'). Mattresses.
And, inscrutably, bafflingly, a bucket of fish.

I bet this kinda stuff goes on all the time in Hong Kong. Where the airport used to be right in the middle of the harbour, the army headquarters are in an upside down gin bottle, there are restaurants with Japanese cartoon character themes and cute desserts, there's a biblical amusement park, a rabbit cafe, and an all Indian and Pakistani 'national' cricket squad.

There's also spam curry won ton soup. Available at some chachantengs and very many late night noodle shops near your lodgings. Where it is always time for tea.


Oddness. Eccentricity. Exotic foreign unusuality.
So many things that cannot be understood.
Royal Pink Regiment sweatshirts.


Unlike dumb white people on the number one California busline spreading disease without a care in the world, because, you know, that's what white people do. Totally understandable.
Especially office worker yuppies.


The milk tea and baked snackies were excellent. So was the pipe afterwards. If you walk through the alleys instead of on the main street, you can avoid the maskless white people.



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WAITING FOR THE TRAINS

Woke up from dreaming of soto ayam at that restaurant near the transtation. Fragrance. Soto ayam in their hands was a mild curry chicken broth with coconut milk added, chunks of dark meat chicken, rice stick noodles, fried potato cubes, garnished with kuchai (韭菜 'gau choi'; bieslook, garlic chives) and fried onion slivers. I am certain there was also basil in it. At least when I make it at home there is, along with a whole jalapeño chili or two floating in the broth for fragrance. Plus a pinch of nutmeg.

Their opor ayam was also a specialty.

In either case, instead of lontong, a crusty bread roll. For dipping.

Basically the breakfast of champions, if you were heading to Amsterdam. After eating you'd pay, light up a cigar, and get a cup of strong milk coffee at the trainstation at the stand on the platform, then board the intercity. It is unlikely that teenage boys still do that; for one thing, smoking in trainstations is now no longer possible. You could be thickly covered with snow or wet with sleet at the far end of a windswept perron, miserable and soggy, but if you light up, you will get cited ("proces verbaal"), because a triggered wheat germ freak who remained nice and dry near the stairs two hundred feet away reported you.
The dictats from Brussels. Must. Be. Obeyed.

It is manifestly much healthier for you to not be smoking a cigar while wet and freezing with squelchy socks. And besides, instead of chicken, which is sentient and has feelings, you should be eating tofu.

So naturally my first smoke while I was striding across the sundrenched Saharan sandwastes of Nob Hill this morning was a cigar instead of the usual pipe.

I remembered a classmate who rode horses, as well as a long summer afternoon train trip to the end of Walcheren. Sunlit day, slow train. On the way back an English family was happily singing Que Sera Sera in the next compartment. Krul tabak (coarse curls of rough leaf) in my pipe (which looked rather remarkably like the pipe illustrated below), newspaper unread, waiting for the coffee cart to finally trundle near.

And hoping that there would be a snack and hot beverage left.
That pipe tobacco has been unavailable for years.
You can buy the Delft jars on e-bay.
It used to be common.


The krul tabak was basically cheap cigar leaf cut for the pipe, steam-cured a bit to be softer and sweeter. Rather like Nicaraguan, but it had a nuttier resinous taste. Strictly low budget.


Life has become quieter.


Coffee.



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CHINESE CHOCKIES

It's time to test out these candies from the Garden Company (嘉頓有限公司) in Hong Kong. Mmmm. They're not bad. I will have no problem consuming this bag. Little hard candies that are a taste of home, if your home is in Sham Shui Po (深水埗). Or anywhere else in the world within several blocks of a well-stocked provisioners which also carries cookies, biscuits, tea, coffee, weird durian flavoured crap, and a vast selection of condiments and noodles. Such as the store where I purchased these candies on a whim. Because I shop there regularly for several of the aforementioned EXCEPTING the weird durian flavoured crap.

After grocery shopping I headed over to a bakery I've liked for many years, since I was a young irresponsible person living in North Beach. The foot pedal-operated sewing machine table that had been in the middle of the intersection earlier, after lunch, had been moved already. It had been baffling to encounter it there earlier, blocking traffic and confusing the tourists. No, this randomly placed clothes making machinery is NOT an art installation, ironic or social-commentary wise, but please feel free to take selfies with it.
Nor is it a common occurence in Chinatown.
I can't explain it either.

Anyway, it was gone by the time I had finished shopping.


Garden Company Limited produce bread, biscuits, buns, cakes, candies, cookies, egg roll cookies in very useful tins often repurposed after consumption for many things, rolls, scones, snacks. I recommend the 朱古力味忌廉小蛋糕 (4 pieces), delicious chocolate cake!
These candies are 朱古力卡侖治糖 ('jyu gu lik kaa leun chi tong').
They may be misapplying kaa-leun-chi (crunchy).

There are other flavours to choose from: 咖啡 ('gaa fei'; "coffee"), 薄荷 ('po ho'; "minty"), 椰子 ('ye ji'; "coconut"), 軟心果汁 ('yuen sam gwo jap'; "fruity centres"), and fancy assortment.

They also produce 榴槤味威化 ('lau lin mei wai faa'; durian flavoured wafer cookies).
I am aware of the durian stuff, and I myself will not purchase it.
Please take this as due warning.

Teatime was lovely. A large crispy buttery palmier cookie, hot milk tea, and bowl of tobacco afterwards. I'm glad the Chinatown bakeries have survived, because in addition to breads, biscuits, packaged cakes, candies, and cookies, tinned flaky egg roll biscuits, the local population must have acces to freshly made cakes, swiss rolls, and pastries.
And coffee or milk tea. It's a necessary touch of civilization.

Good thing they don't rely on the tourists.
Who may have heard of durian.
They're scared.



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OVERFLOWING WITH GREASY HOBBITS

In an article listing the worst towns in America several things stood out: high crime, low education, general dirtiness, industrial ugliness, horrid food, air or water pollution, derelict buildings, mental illness, domestic violence, and drug addiction. No, they weren't all in the South, several were in California (Stockton, Bakersfield, Fresno). But on the whole it more than perfectly described the red states. Several places were in Texas and Florida.
And even the Midwest outranked California for misery.
We're tied with the North East.

Years ago, when doing research on a potential dealer for our products, I read about the town and part of the country where they were located. It sounded ideal: research universities, diverse population, reasonably prosperous metropolitan area, mellow climate with four actual seasons. The health statistics, however, were quite horrible. Among the highest rates for diabetes, heart disease, and STDs in the entire country.
Almost coincidentally, solidly Republican.

Statistically, the number of restaurants serving any Asian cuisines was extraordinarily low, despite there being a fair number of people of Asian ancestry there according to the census reports. They were probably the healthiest people in town.

Most of the country is ripe for poutine and cheesy nachos for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and a midnight snack. Washed down with suds and chocolate hazelnut venticinos.
Oh, also 'second breakfast'.

Makes one wonder what viewers will feast upon while watching the Warriors.
And how they'll drown their sorrows afterwards.
Seeing as it might rain on their cake.


There is a correlation between domestic violence, greasy snacks, and watching sports.
Or at least an overlapping Venn diagram.


I am glad I'm not in Stockton, Bakersfield, or Fresno. Or anywhere in the Red States.
Heck, I'm glad I don't live in Oakland.


I'm rooting for Boston, by the way.



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LITTLE CHEESE SHOPS ON THE PRAIRIE

Are muffins ever truly necessary? I suppose for people who are contipated they are probably a blessing, but for a minority of Americans who do not dine on fried starchy crap all the time and included at last some vegetables other than ketchup in their diet, muffins are a monumental masticatory waste of time. Besides being altogether nasty.

The two young American-born gentlemen having baked porkchops over spaghetti bolognese covered with melted cheese a la Hong Kong at the restaurant yesterday might need muffins this morning. Or not. Depends on their digestive enzymes.

As a cheese-eating Dutchman, that amount of dairy would clobber me.
Bear in mind that I do indeed love cheese.
But still.

Cheese. God's gift to American food. That and bacon. And barbecue-flavour. Plus the donut. Not that there is anything wrong with that.

Most Americans would jump on a cheese donut for breakfast.
Instead of the necessary sawdust muffin.
Fibres! Regularity.


There is an entire aisle at Walgreens that testifies to the yummy goodness that Americans eat. Indigestive aids, pink liquids, softeners, bowel tonics, acid-neutralizing fizzy chemicals, red pills, green pills, and softgel capsules.



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HERBERT SANG. HE SHOULDN'T HAVE.

Something I have often said is that white people should not sing karaoke. Many other people shouldn't either, but the very worst singers among us Caucasians usually pick the crappiest songs, and have friends who will scream along with that and cheer us on. Which is probably because we have a streak of meanness and brutality a mile wide, and most of us wouldn't know bad entertainment if it came up and bit us on the rear.

Of course, all that said, "Little White Poplar" (小白楊) is in one sense both a sappy romantic AND patriotic treacle ballad that hits all the right buttons with artificially flavoured fruit candy and sacchrin, and may have been written by an official in the ministry of moral health, but Jenny gave it gusto. It was the only decently sung number we heard while there.
Alas, we came in when it was almost over.
Caucasians after that.

I am neither a fan of propaganda for mom hometown men in uniform girl he's going back to nor nineteen seventies pop music featuring soulful moaning and white women doing weird spiritual shiznit or burning sage.

No wonder you people get drunk at karaoke bars.
Flaming weirdoes who need help.
Sick puppies.

THE PIPE FOR WATCHING RATS IN SPOFFORD ALLEY

As per longstanding tradition dating back to our North Beach days years ago, the bookseller and I subject ourselves to this every week. I smoke my pipe while waiting for him to get off work, then we visit a place with horrible boxed wine, another place with loud music and good beer, and lastly the karaoke joint for some whiskey and conversation. I myself scarcely touch alcohol anymore (because of my medications), but that's no reason to let a fine custom fall by the wayside. It's educational.

Don't worry, we wear our masks as much as possible.
Unfortunately we don't have earplugs.


Other than Euterpean torture, it was a fine night.
We left before it got worse.



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NEUROTIC AND OBSESSED

When I look at my albums there are several subjects which stand out, and more or less mark me as a compulsive man. Pipes and tobacco (hundreds), food (nearly a hundred), elsewhere places (over sixty), and caffeinated beverages (nearly forty). Plus Chinese mostly seal script calligraphy. Seal script (篆書 'suen syu') is the archaic script style predating the regular script, utilized anciently for records, texts on ceremonial bronze vessels, ownership markings, and, obviously, seals used for signatures, authorship, authority, and possessions. Versions of seal script are still employed for those purposes, and is a fascinating calligraphic style in that with a bit of knowledge one can break apart how certain characters came to be.
Years ago I carved seals, which helped me pay the rent.
Obviously seal script continues to intrigue me.
My own calligraphy isn't exceptional.

Caffeinated beverages are a more decisive marking on my life. Pretty much from my early adolescence till the present I've been fully caffeinated, and every single day includes both coffee and tea. I'm mostly low-level high as a kite all the time.

Lunch today was late-ish, and included tea.
There will be coffee later.

港式奶茶

Black tea with sweetened condensed milk. It fuels a man for going up on rickety bamboo twenty storey high scaffolding in a gale, or crash landing a fighter jet in the himalayas.
And other things. A quicker picker upper, so to speak.

Visually the shadings of light and colour on a cheap crockery cup, and the rusty red hues of the beverage itself, are something that I must paint. Ovals, swirls, gradations. For me these are comfort inducing, thought inspiring.

I suspect a psychologist would have a field day with that.

Pipe paintings were a great way to maintain my sanity during the height of the pandemic, and still are. Like most neurotic people I collect things without actually thinking about it, and have ended up with several briars which are now treasured possessions, often enjoyed.
The pages of this blog are littered with those pictures.

I've also ended up with around three dozen nice teapots.
For some reason I've never painted any of them.
I find this hard to explain.

It might be guilt because I don't use all of them often enough.
Perhaps I'm hesitant about getting too stimulated.
I'm probably crazy enough already.



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EATING LOCAL FOOD

Remarkable how many people I knew when I walked in. Nodding acquaintances, hello-hello, brief smiles. But considering that it was a restaurant, one very customary greeting would have been ridiculous: "have you eaten yet?" (你食咗飯未 'nei sik-jo faan mei'). That's what they were there for, and in some cases the answer would've been "mmm snarfle nom" or a variation thereof around a mouthful of noodles in an attempt to answer the question.

The only cell-phone conversations while I was there were predictable variations of "oh crap I've just finished lunch I'll hurry on back" and "I'm already here come on down and bring the child". Specifically precisely those two. She handed money to her friend and rushed out, shortly after which a father and urchin came in and joined a woman already seated.

"Mmm snarfle nom"

Late lunches. Office persons, and feeding kiddo after school.
Because one can presume that the kiddo is ravous.
Or needs her mood altered.

THIS IS WHY IT'S CALLED A 'CHACHANTENG' (茶餐廳)

Having putzed around all day I myself had not eaten yet, and needed mood-amending, what with low blood sugar, and the blinkeredness that always results from cooping oneself up; a plate of pork with black bean sauce pepper and garlic over noodles is a legal form of LSD. And smoking a pipe afterwards on Waverly while listening to three gentlemen chatting rectified whatever grumpiness remained.

The Yunnanese fellow understood some Cantonese, his older colleague spoke both Cantonese and Mandarin, and the third gentleman spoke Cantonese and a little Mandarin, or enough to make himself understood to a native speaker of Mandarin who understood some Cantonese. Consequently, the Caucasian standing nearby and looking inscrutable nearby could actually understand most of the conversation.

The German-speaking walking tour across the street didn't understand a word. Given that almost nobody actually understands Swiss-German anyway, that seemed appropriate (it's almost as dense as Schwabian), and I'm sure the tour guide (a normal German-speaker) probably had a hard time understanding their questions also, so three chaps speaking Chinese and a fourth chap being an inscrutable Occidental nearby were just local colour, not nearly as faszinierend und fotowürdig as the signboards and architectural embellishments of the association buildingson either side of the street, ganz wirklich wundersam.

Even during the height of the tourist season, when there are German-speakers all over the city, I have never heard German in a chachanteng. I wonder why that is.
What do they eat? And have they eaten yet?
Es ist doch sehr merkwürdig!


We also have knödel and schweinshaxe here! As well as edible local variations on flädlesuppe and spätzle. It's not ALL Hong Kong variations on sauerbraten!


Sorry, 'Ollanders, no frikandel yet.



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THE SHAKING OF SPEARS

A friend who did not show up for the meeting of the local pipe club is still tromping around the wilder parts of the globe; northern Syria, the western islands of Scotland, or the wastelands south of Oklahoma all the way to Juarez. As a native of warmer wilder place where there are zebras and assegais, he naturally believes himself immortal, and he prefers areas where one can perch uphill behind a few boulders to take potshots at British patrols, swearing under his breath. Like myself, English is one of his fluent native languages, but he will express himself with quite unBritish candor. While happily swilling tea and chomping on a piece of buttered toast with thick cut Oxford marmelade in between reloading.

We missed him. Actually, we missed a whole bunch of the crusty old fossils with their briars. One much esteemed member is in Boston recovering from a heart attack several months ago, one of us is recovering from a bad bout of covid though having had all of his shots, another one is caring for his wife who has covid, a third is dependent for transport on a possibly infectious person, a fourth has not been heard of in months (tending to elderly parents and other things), and several others may have simply decided that as the interesting crowd were not going to be there the heck with it all.

Perhaps they needed to celebrate Pride month or warmer weather or recover from severe post-game hangovers or something.

All of this meant that extremely few people showed up. Sparsely attended is not the word. Try abysmally bleak.

Albeit with an excess of cheese and cured meats. Plus wine.

Neil showed off his latest acquisition, that being a very splendid Dunhill billiard which is over eighty years old and was only smoked by a little old lady after church on Sunday; stamping and blast in perfect crisp condition. Mike puffed on a blend that Greg Pease had given him a lot of about eight years ago. Some Palmetto Balkan by Jeremy Reeves was enjoyed.
It turns out that there was rather a lot of cheese.
Plus cured meats. And wine.

I abstained from the wine.


The local pipe club being rather a civilized bunch of mature individuals, there were no Hobbit or Gandalf wannabees or Sherlock Holmes fanboys present. So there was no one there with a churchwarden or Calabash, and nobody lit up anything with vanilla, chocolate, or cherry.

Other than sleeping fitfully last night because of all the cheese it was lovely.

There's something about splendid tobacco blends that contain Turkish and Latakia which prompts memories. My brother studying chess late at night, Pauline smoking her gorgeous Sasieni tan sandblast apple, chilidogs from Doggie Diner. And the Occidental on a Saturday, during the off season, with only three or four other people there. Bob happily reading the newspaper with a cigar and a half splash of Bourbon on his side of the counter.
Late nights near the office, before the rainy season.

Also recollections of bogs and moorlands, late autumn, walking toward the watermill over a dirt road. There's a pub there with an unpleasant bartender, but they have Trappist beer. Which is great with a cheeseplate.



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SAMBAL AND OTHER THINGS

Now that the coming Huy Fong Sriracha shortage is starting to penetrate the consciousness of the wider public -- many of whom only use it very occasionally, when they want their bland Anglo gruel to have a bit of sparkle -- it strikes me that there are some tastes which always remind people of their childhoods and the golden glow of Spring back in the old country. For a Transylvanian or Icelander those things are not worth recapturing. Because they are awful. The phrases "Icelandic bee honey" or "there's golly fish to eat" probably still give some people nightmares, and the less said about the Transylvanian diet the better.

For the rest of us things are mostly excellent. The tastes of "home" may be recaptured with something as delightful and simple as a mustard sauce made with the pan crusties and wine, with a squeeze of lemon juice added. Chopped capers optionally also. Or Thyme. Or Dill. Or a handful of parsley and chives. Or red wine instead of white. Or a pinch of nutmeg. Plus a touch of ground coriander. And a dash thick sweet soy sauce.
Or, in very many cases, sambal.

Of which, of course, there should be several kinds in one's pantry.

[Sambal is any chilipaste preparation. Thick sweet soy sauce (ketjap manis) is both Dutch and Indonesian, originally a Fujianese condiment. Ground coriander is a necessary ingredient. Nutmeg (and mace) make everything taste 'Dutch'.]

Sriracha is a sambal. The same company also makes one or two other splendid items which are actually called sambal. Sriracha is convenient and widely available nowadays, but many years ago it wasn't and a man despaired of civilization ever hitting the raw boring bland primitive whitebread hinterlands.

Civilized life in California, Texas, or the North East would be impossible without Sriracha or something like sambal. Of course in Texas it's still impossible, but they do have chilies, so that isn't the problem. The North East has a buggery awful climate, and the rest of the country is filled with Bible thumpers, but California is okay.


While we were living in Holland (we moved there when I was two) there were always two or three large jars of sambal in the reserve in the cellar and the back of the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. My mother, who grew up in a military household on the Presidio, disapproved of the substance (or had just never developed a taste for it), but her lumbago meant that she never discovered it in the refrigerator or past the steep concrete steps downward.

After I returned to the United States I was desperate. What was sambal called in English (it wasn't) and was it available at local foodstores in Berkeley? Those first few months back in the States were rather abysmal. I eventually discovered that there were three shops in San Francisco where it could be found; one out in the avenues, two in Chinatown. West Coast life was still quite primitive in those days (and I remain surprised that people out in the avenues had learned about toilet paper and soap by that time).

When after college I moved to San Francisco I settled near Chinatown, because the easy availability of diverse ingredients spoke to me. To the best of my knowledge, outside of the largely Asian American neighborhoods in the city people are still eating boiled cabbage, possibly with French fries and ketchup, which seem to be their favourite foods.
The spices that they know are salt, pepper, and onion flakes.

At present I am augmenting my Sriracha and sambal stockpile. If I have enough, I may end up trading some of it on the black market for silk stockings, cigarettes, and penicillin.


That thick sweet soy sauce? A substitute can easily be made at home. Standard soy sauce and the same quantity by volume of refined cane sugar, heated up till it becomes syrupy. Add a dash of rice wine or sherry, plus a squeeze of lime juice to prevent the sugar re-crystalizing once the mixture cools.

Most American mustard is, of course, absolutely repulsive.
But decent European mustard may be had.

As for the sambal, good luck!
Y'all have my sympathy.



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SUCH BRAVERY, SUCH MANLINESS!

One day ago I had not heard of Tangshan (唐山 'tong saan') in Hebei (河北 'ho pak'). Per Wikipedia: "Tangshan is located in the central section of the Bohai Economic Rim, facing the Bohai Sea to the south. Lying on the North China Plain, Tangshan is adjacent to the Yan Mountains to the north, borders the Luan River and Qinhuangdao to the east, and to the west and southwest borders Tianjin. Because of its location in the northeast of Hebei, it is a strategic area and a corridor linking two China's north and northeast regions.
The largest river in the prefecture is the Luan River."
End cite.

A MONUMENT TO THE MASCULINITY OF TANGSHAN MEN

But of course, Tangshan is mainly known outside of China for the fact that nine men were arrested for assaulting four women dining together at one of Tangshan's barbecue restaurants this past Friday. Because of course, Hebei.

Hebei is a fascinating place filled with chickenshit men who lack civilization.
It is not worth visiting, and other than barbecue, there is nothing to eat.
As far as education is concerned, it's down around Mississippi.
I do not wish to visit Hebei. Life is far too short.



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HELLO PUNY HUMAN

This needs to be combined with AI and 'emotional support animal' capabilities or 'assistance animal' tech. So that single-living old people have someone who can keep an eye on them and talk back when neccesary. Or argue with them.
Imagine the possibilities.

"Hello Roger, are you okay?"

"No, don't just grunt. A complete sentence, please."

"Please twitch both sides of your face alternatingly to indicate that you haven't had a stroke."

"Should I call an ambulance? Your silence means 'yes'."

"You know, I'm going to switch on the coffee maker. You seem as grumbly as normal this morning."

"By the way, Roger, stop sharing your damned 'wordle' scores with me every damned day. I do not care."

"No, Roger, I do not know what five letters for 'discredited political blowhard' are. Do your own crossword puzzles, don't cheat."

"There are two Jehovas Witnesses at the door. Want me to do something demonic to scare them off?"


Roger is going to have an emotionally rewarding & interactive old age.
And won't become a secret alcoholic now.
He has a friend.


"Let's NOT do the Hokey-Pokey. I'm better at it than you."


Of course there's always the distinct possibility that the cube starts singing 'Zadok The Priest' to himself while roaming the apartment late at night, having seen too many documentaries about the queen. Zadok, The Priest. Zadok, The Priest. Zadok, The Priest.
Yes, those are, seemingly, the only lyrics.


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IT'S ORIENTAL!

Oriental tobacco: Turkish type, small leaf (basma, djubec, Yenidje, Samsoun, yakka, and Smyrna, also called Izmir, et autres); Latakia (Syrian shek el bint, or Cyprus leaf grown from Smyrna seed stock). There was also Shirazi (Persian) tobacco, but it hasn't been part of the programme for generations. Egyptian cigarettes, often called 'Oriental', used mostly Turkish leaf because tobacco takes so much out of the soil that after a few crops you can write off that field for the next decade or so (leading to a long-standing ban on growing it in Egypt).

[Kyriazi Frères in Souq al-Tawfiqiya in Cairo made some exceedingly nice "Egyptian" cigarettes.]

Most tobaccos grown in Asia are either Virginia or Kentucky (Burley), neither of which are known as 'Occidental'. They're not called 'Oriental' either; that is stricty speaking Turkish and Latakia (although the crops from Greece are also considered 'Oriental'). Russian tobacco is any one of the types mentioned above, OR mahorka, which is cheap, nasty, and strong.

The Vietnamese are pretty much the only people to have developed an affection for Nicotiana Rustica, btw, which is native to North America. Everyone else smokes Nicotiana Tabacum (originally from the West Indies), which is grown world-wide now.

Balkan Blends of pipe tobacco (developed in London over a century ago) consist of Virginia (nowadays often from Africa or even Brazil), Orientals (Turkey or Greece), and Latakia (nowadays from Cyprus). Just something for sensitive people to further get their knickers in a twist over, but good luck finding a pipe smoker to scream at; we're good at hiding in this day and age, and tend to tromp the moors by ourselves or skulk furtively in dark alleys.

Cigarettes for a long time were English (Virginia), American (Virginia and Burley), Oriental (Also called Turkish), Egyptian (using Turkish tobacco), French (shitty tobacco originally from Syria), or Russian (papirosa) of which the most famous still extant brand is Belomorkanal. Most papirosa used Mahorka, and in consequence were real lung-rippers.

BELOMORKANAL

WIKIPEDIA  CC BY-SA 3.0, Link
[CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=29593]

The reason for this post is severely raised eyebrows over the term 'Oriental'.
Which to someone who knows tobacco actually means something.
Otherwise, it's just geographic.
East.

Maryland tobacco (now mostly grown in Italy) is so clean and pure that it was considered suitable for children. I don't think that advertising campaign is still around. Very sad.



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IMPORTANT CULTURAL AFFAIRS

It is extremely important to remain courteous and polite on Facebook. Not because you might say something hurtful or offend someone, but because you might be banned for a while.
I myself have gotten two thirty day time-outs, because my kindly words of advice to some people to commit vigorous amorous acts upon themselves were taken much amiss.
Nowadays I just ask for their numbers so I can leave suggestive voicemails.

Like almost everyone, I do have a fall-back account. Because I don't trust Zuckerberg's minions. No one does. We beat them up at parties and lock them in the cellar.


A good friend recently came out of thirty day jail. I do not know what he said. I would ask, but that would result in another thirty days. A previous stint in the FB slammer was because he said something honest about certain reprehensible strategic allies of the United States, whom I privately consider a bunch of bedsheet wearing walla walla shouting savages, murderous barbarians, and loathsome swine with almost no redeemable value.
But heaven forefend that I should say aught at all about that on FB.
After all, they are palsy walsy with an ex-president.
Whose droogs are all over the place.
Treacherous bastards.

Rather makes one wish they'd bring back the guillotine. Some of our fellow "citizens" are too tall. And many of our rich and famous are in fact insufferable pretentious dicks.

I'm also rather in favour of torches and pitchforks.

All fine French "traditions".



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AND SPIRITUAL!

An acquaintance recently described how happy and healthy he has been since switching to an all meat diet. Previously he could eat junkfood all day long and not feel full. Now he's hardly ever hungry. It's miraculous. Miraculous!

Personally, I am glad we seldom associate and that I am not his plumber.

Also, when he started saying that he never eats fish from the Pacific because "they do things to it", I mentioned that I myself really miss herring. Because I do.
I am Dutch. Herring is king.

I explained that the Dutch royal motto (je maintiendrai) means "I want my herring!".
And that our anthem is about the place herring has in civilized life.

What else would you expect me to do? I think he's out of his goofy mind, and I don't want to hear about his bowels taught with meat, good gracious shut up man. Far better to seize control of the "conversation" and confuse the crap out him with my own craziness.

He is typical for his class and kind.
Meaning that he's an idiot.
He's a Marinite.

Fish is brainfood.

Little to feed in his case.



One negative effect of a carnivorous diet that immediately springs to mind is the smell. Has your dog ever breathed at you? Precisely? In his case, what would have been Alpo breath is probably made worse by his rancid cigars. It's a good thing we kept a safe distance.



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