There were teenage girls on the bus who sounded like ducks. It is doubtful that any of them will ever go to college, they just didn't seem the type. But please do not think that I look down on the dumb - I actually like morons!
I just prefer them to be quieter. Or, if that's impossible, more intelligent.
One of them was wearing a new perfume.
Even from several seats away I noticed.
Her friend asked her what it was (which is how I know it was a new perfume). The wearee was proud of her find and gladly shared that knowledge.
It may have been called Tropical Thunderstorm, or Tropical Passion, or Tropical Fever, or Tropical Lust-dream, or something.
Tropical.
Supposedly it recalled the rainforests.
MANGROVE SWAMP TROLLOP ALLURE
Sweetheart, rainforests do NOT smell like the mango jelly whore house!
There is remarkably little in the tropical environment that smells of fruit, or even flowers.
Rainforests reek of tannic rottenness and very nasty things.
The tropics are rich, fecund, and decomposing.
Most of the exotic perfumes are misnamed. The wearers would be horrified if they could really smell the exotic locales and rare ingredients enfolded in the perfume's image.
Many tropical flowers, if they have any aroma at all, are feral and verging on putrid.
Several of the most beautiful blooms whiff of rotting meat.
If you really want an exotic fragrance that will not make men gasp, try something more mundane.
Decent soap, normal shampoo, clean clothes .....
A discrete touch of Alfred Sung or something by Muelhens .....
Several smells really awaken images for me, and recall warmer (and hence 'exotic') climes.
Fried shrimp paste and dried fish: Philippines.
Gummy incense and salty condiments: South-East Asian grocery stores.
Fermented black beans: A sea-food restaurant in 110 degree heat.
Decomposing fruit: All of South-East Asia.
Rotting fish: A palm-lined beach in Malaysia.
Burnt rubber: Java.
Open sewers: Java.
Animal corpses: Java.
Rancid coconut grease: Java.
Rotting garbage: Java.
Chemical effluvium in a ditch: Java.
Java is a VERY exotic place. Beautiful, too.
Yes, please smell like that!
On the other hand, dried citrus, the faintest hint of cassia and clove, merest whiffs of camphor and coffee - just about perfect.
The exoticism has been tamed, the foreign brought home.
Add the smells of clean laundry and cookies, and we're really talking sexy!
If you're wearing that, no need to speak - your presence is enough.
You are a sultry temptress just laying there fully clothed.
I have to brush my teeth now.
Or wash my hands.
Something.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
WATCH BAY TO BREAKERS WITH THE FLABBY NUDES? OR A QUIET WALK INSTEAD?
This Sunday the city will experience the madness of naked people running. As well as leather-garbed prom-queens, giant alligators, and Xena Warrior Princess - probably all of them overweight men.
No, I shall not view the zany antics.
I have managed to miss the Bay to Breakers race for several years, why ruin a winning streak?
Mentally I shall applaud the lanky strapping Kenians who inevitably will lead, but I shan't actually physically cheer them on. The race starts at seven in the morning, which is when most normal people will be hanging seriously over.
That's far too early even for me.
I do not plan to get up much before ten in any case.
Coffee, shave and shower, and out of the house with tobacco products, for a leisurely stroll across Nob Hill. Perhaps daydreaming as I cross the hill of meeting a small female person with bright eyes and a sparkling brain whom I might spontaneously invite to lunch - my fantasy love life is more real at this point than any prospects of actually having a love life again - then descending into Chinatown for a light feast of snackipoos.
I expect that this quadrant of the city will be delightfully peaceful.
No naked men. No large furry things, giant green amazons, or string bikinis.
Should be very pleasant for strolling.
Charming company would be nice, but I'm okay with walking alone.
I can always stop to smell the flowers. I'm not going anywhere.
The rest of you, go have a good time at the race.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No, I shall not view the zany antics.
I have managed to miss the Bay to Breakers race for several years, why ruin a winning streak?
Mentally I shall applaud the lanky strapping Kenians who inevitably will lead, but I shan't actually physically cheer them on. The race starts at seven in the morning, which is when most normal people will be hanging seriously over.
That's far too early even for me.
I do not plan to get up much before ten in any case.
Coffee, shave and shower, and out of the house with tobacco products, for a leisurely stroll across Nob Hill. Perhaps daydreaming as I cross the hill of meeting a small female person with bright eyes and a sparkling brain whom I might spontaneously invite to lunch - my fantasy love life is more real at this point than any prospects of actually having a love life again - then descending into Chinatown for a light feast of snackipoos.
I expect that this quadrant of the city will be delightfully peaceful.
No naked men. No large furry things, giant green amazons, or string bikinis.
Should be very pleasant for strolling.
Charming company would be nice, but I'm okay with walking alone.
I can always stop to smell the flowers. I'm not going anywhere.
The rest of you, go have a good time at the race.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
ADORABLE DEAD SQUIRREL!
Normally I am averse to sharing videos of cute creatures, or little children.
But sometimes, you just have to bite the bullet.
LITTLE GIRL WITH SQUIRREL
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Nn0UkdDArM
"May, 2008 our newly adopted (leased!) Greyhound, Ivy unexpectedly walked right up to a healthy squirrel standing stock still & quick as lightning, killed it with one shake. She dropped it & walked on, my husband behind her, his jaw agape. I went to retrieve the squirrel to reverently bury it. I ducked in the house for a shovel. Meanwhile..... our daughter picked it up..... with so much love."
-------------EatBreatheHoop.com
Well dang, isn't that just the cutest thing you've ever seen?
Adorable!
"It's a skwewwil! It's dayed!"
Yes, children love dead animals. Bless them.
Young ladies and fur. Lovely.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But sometimes, you just have to bite the bullet.
LITTLE GIRL WITH SQUIRREL
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Nn0UkdDArM
"May, 2008 our newly adopted (leased!) Greyhound, Ivy unexpectedly walked right up to a healthy squirrel standing stock still & quick as lightning, killed it with one shake. She dropped it & walked on, my husband behind her, his jaw agape. I went to retrieve the squirrel to reverently bury it. I ducked in the house for a shovel. Meanwhile..... our daughter picked it up..... with so much love."
-------------EatBreatheHoop.com
Well dang, isn't that just the cutest thing you've ever seen?
Adorable!
"It's a skwewwil! It's dayed!"
Yes, children love dead animals. Bless them.
Young ladies and fur. Lovely.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE BREEZE BETWEEN YOUR KNEES
As you can imagine, just ONE news article caught my eye today. You know me well enough to understand that on top of that gallantry to the very bone, there's a thin veneer of depravity.
I am a gentlemanly and completely civilized person. Just a wee bit ....
It adds to my considerable charm, I think.
At times I just have to channel for the happy pervert within - before he starts strangling the child within, or feeding the child within to the rabid dolphin within.
It's all about maintaining mental health.
And enjoying skirts. Nothing wrong with skirt.
ROW OVER SHORT SKIRTS
Quote:
"A row over how to respond to ever-shortening school skirts is brewing in South Korea."
No, the issue is not about official prurience and puritanism as you might have thought. It's about putting planks on the front of school desks to prevent red-blooded teenage boys from crawling around on all fours during class hours. More or less.
"As hemlines in Korean classrooms rise, so it seems does the cost of accommodating them."
I remember from my own school days that skinned knees are a bitch. Especially if you don't give them time to heal.
""school hemlines have reportedly risen 10-15cm (4-6in) in the last decade. And that is apparently making everyone uncomfortable."
Uncomfortable?
So who is complaining? Seriously, if those girls can keep from freezing while exhibiting themselves, more power to them!
And I for one am incredibly envious of the Koreans, who have all those teenage girls with short, short skirts wandering around.
Given what the weather is like in San Francisco, it will be a long time before you see me in a short skirt.
I want to keep my elegant gams warm!
Not goose-bumpy.
Probably not going to wear a skirt all summer.
Short or otherwise.
Sad, I know.
[NOTE: This post written yesterday during lunch. Posted after Blogger revived itself.]
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I am a gentlemanly and completely civilized person. Just a wee bit ....
It adds to my considerable charm, I think.
At times I just have to channel for the happy pervert within - before he starts strangling the child within, or feeding the child within to the rabid dolphin within.
It's all about maintaining mental health.
And enjoying skirts. Nothing wrong with skirt.
ROW OVER SHORT SKIRTS
Quote:
"A row over how to respond to ever-shortening school skirts is brewing in South Korea."
No, the issue is not about official prurience and puritanism as you might have thought. It's about putting planks on the front of school desks to prevent red-blooded teenage boys from crawling around on all fours during class hours. More or less.
"As hemlines in Korean classrooms rise, so it seems does the cost of accommodating them."
I remember from my own school days that skinned knees are a bitch. Especially if you don't give them time to heal.
""school hemlines have reportedly risen 10-15cm (4-6in) in the last decade. And that is apparently making everyone uncomfortable."
Uncomfortable?
So who is complaining? Seriously, if those girls can keep from freezing while exhibiting themselves, more power to them!
And I for one am incredibly envious of the Koreans, who have all those teenage girls with short, short skirts wandering around.
Given what the weather is like in San Francisco, it will be a long time before you see me in a short skirt.
I want to keep my elegant gams warm!
Not goose-bumpy.
Probably not going to wear a skirt all summer.
Short or otherwise.
Sad, I know.
[NOTE: This post written yesterday during lunch. Posted after Blogger revived itself.]
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
COLLEGE STUDENTS AND CULINARY CHOICES
The young relative of a friend is graduating from college this year.
His father maintains that surely it must have been the best four years of his life - virtual independence, fascinating reading material, delightful co-eds, and beer-sodden parties!
Well dammit, he probably learned so much!
I had an opportunity to talk to the young gentleman in question recently.
Apparently, what he learned is 'cheese-whiz'.
He just wishes he had learned it sooner!
For the first year, he lived on pop tarts and pizza. Stale pizza, when you soak it in milk, becomes soft enough that you can eat it with a spoon.
By the second year he expanded his repertoire - including items as diverse as instant ramen and bac-o-bits.
Both of which, when soaked in milk, can be eaten with a spoon.
He explained that when you're studying, you need one hand free. Hence the spoon.
I had been wondering, but now I understood the paradigm.
Multi-tasking, making good use of the time.
The efficiency of texting and eating simultaneously.
Brilliant!
Third year: hot sauce. Makes the pop tarts taste different. Also works with instant ramen, and bac-o-bits.
It wasn't until the fourth year that he learned that everything tastes better with cheese-whizz.
Pop tarts, pizza, ramen, and bac-o-bits. Just spray on some yellow magic, and presto!
And you can eat it with a spoon!
Even his girl-friend likes it.
RICH CHEESY GOODNESS IN A CAN!
I have to think that there has to be a better basis for a relationship than a shared affection for cheese-whizz, but they're young.
At that age, appetites are a little coarse, tastes a little crude. Certainly, if they get married, I know what to get them. An entire pallet of the stuff. Enough to keep them in goo for a few years. If nothing else, it will keep them together.
It's better than relationship counseling.
She learned about cheese-whizz after spending several months in Thailand, where cheese is not that easy to come by. Smelly fish products yes, dairy no. When she came back she craved cheese. Bring on the flammable fromage, pile on the congealed mammary exudates!
Cheese!
She started spraying it on everything.
She eats it on her cereal in the morning. And take-out food from the local Chinese restaurant just tastes so much better with yellow glop on top, too.
Her favourite home-cooked meal is micro-waved beef stew with Doritos for texture, and cheese-whizz for taste.
At this point, I have to agree with the young man's father.
Yes, they did learn so much.
I'm not at all sure how useful their knowledge will be, and I quake at the thought of similar college-grads entering the work force.......
Lord only knows how this will change American culture, and what abominations their febrile minds will inject into popular discourse.
But I'm not exceptionally worried, despite the potential for societal casein-overload .
They'll probably die of exploding heart valves before too much damage is done.
Cheese-whizz.
AFTER WORD
Instant ramen soaked in milk, with cheese-whizz sprayed on top. It's spoonably good!
If you plan on sending your kid at college a care package, just remember: pop tarts, pizza coupons, bac-o-bits, hot sauce, and cheese-whizz.
It's up to him whether he pours beer or milk into the bowl.
I suggest both. Saves time.
For a treat, mix it all together, dunk it in beer-batter, and deep-fry it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
His father maintains that surely it must have been the best four years of his life - virtual independence, fascinating reading material, delightful co-eds, and beer-sodden parties!
Well dammit, he probably learned so much!
I had an opportunity to talk to the young gentleman in question recently.
Apparently, what he learned is 'cheese-whiz'.
He just wishes he had learned it sooner!
For the first year, he lived on pop tarts and pizza. Stale pizza, when you soak it in milk, becomes soft enough that you can eat it with a spoon.
By the second year he expanded his repertoire - including items as diverse as instant ramen and bac-o-bits.
Both of which, when soaked in milk, can be eaten with a spoon.
He explained that when you're studying, you need one hand free. Hence the spoon.
I had been wondering, but now I understood the paradigm.
Multi-tasking, making good use of the time.
The efficiency of texting and eating simultaneously.
Brilliant!
Third year: hot sauce. Makes the pop tarts taste different. Also works with instant ramen, and bac-o-bits.
It wasn't until the fourth year that he learned that everything tastes better with cheese-whizz.
Pop tarts, pizza, ramen, and bac-o-bits. Just spray on some yellow magic, and presto!
And you can eat it with a spoon!
Even his girl-friend likes it.
RICH CHEESY GOODNESS IN A CAN!
I have to think that there has to be a better basis for a relationship than a shared affection for cheese-whizz, but they're young.
At that age, appetites are a little coarse, tastes a little crude. Certainly, if they get married, I know what to get them. An entire pallet of the stuff. Enough to keep them in goo for a few years. If nothing else, it will keep them together.
It's better than relationship counseling.
She learned about cheese-whizz after spending several months in Thailand, where cheese is not that easy to come by. Smelly fish products yes, dairy no. When she came back she craved cheese. Bring on the flammable fromage, pile on the congealed mammary exudates!
Cheese!
She started spraying it on everything.
She eats it on her cereal in the morning. And take-out food from the local Chinese restaurant just tastes so much better with yellow glop on top, too.
Her favourite home-cooked meal is micro-waved beef stew with Doritos for texture, and cheese-whizz for taste.
At this point, I have to agree with the young man's father.
Yes, they did learn so much.
I'm not at all sure how useful their knowledge will be, and I quake at the thought of similar college-grads entering the work force.......
Lord only knows how this will change American culture, and what abominations their febrile minds will inject into popular discourse.
But I'm not exceptionally worried, despite the potential for societal casein-overload .
They'll probably die of exploding heart valves before too much damage is done.
Cheese-whizz.
AFTER WORD
Instant ramen soaked in milk, with cheese-whizz sprayed on top. It's spoonably good!
If you plan on sending your kid at college a care package, just remember: pop tarts, pizza coupons, bac-o-bits, hot sauce, and cheese-whizz.
It's up to him whether he pours beer or milk into the bowl.
I suggest both. Saves time.
For a treat, mix it all together, dunk it in beer-batter, and deep-fry it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
PIE AND PERVERT DOLLS
I know way more about Barbie Dolls and Sexuality than is comfortable.
And remarkably, this has nothing to do with fetishes.
NAKED INVASION FORCE
When I was a child one of my friends and I would play at the kitchen table. Now, as youngsters in Europe, we were familiar with Asterix and Obelix - two comic strip characters in an ongoing series about a small Gallic village beating off the Romans encamped all around them at the time of Julius Caesar. You have probably read some of the episodes.
When you were seven or eight years old, you may have even incorporated elements of the 'tale' into your games.
Instead of 'Cowboys and Indians', you could have been 'Gauls and Legionnaires'.
One day the Gauls had a remarkable victory over the Romans. There was boasting and much manly posturing.
The part of the Gauls was played by a snap pea and a potato, embodying the physical characteristics of Asterix (small) and Obelix (very large) respectively.
The part of the Romans was played by my friend's sisters' collection of Barbie dolls.
When the Barbie dolls (Romans) died in battle, they were all naked.
The reason being that what they had been wearing was not correct for the period. Totally unsuitable, in fact - short skirts and frilly blouses, feh! And Romans were often naked, so it seemed logical to undress them.
Romans, naked - ergo dead Romans, still naked.
His father didn't immediately grasp the "truthiness" of the scene.
When the old man came into the kitchen and saw a pile of naked Barbie dolls next to two cheering vegetables, he dropped his cigar.
After he heard the explanation, however, he was reassured that there weren't two little freakazoids in the kitchen.
He told us to ask him sometime about the Sabine women, and left.
In retrospect, it could've been worse. We could have played French Revolution and decapitated the naked Barbies.
[When we did 'Germans versus allies' the German soldiers were naked too.]
It wasn't until three or four happy years later that we finally put their clothes back on.
By then their nudity and their biological inaccuracy was an issue.
It just didn't look right anymore. Kinda creepy.
NASTY LITTLE DOLLS
Recently a friend of mine described Mothers Day a few years ago, when he became convinced that his boyfriend was a pervert.
His boyfriend's mother had died a few months before, and one of the things he had received from her before her death was her collection of Barbie Dolls. On Mother's Day, he had put them on a little pedestal on the dining room table. Symbolically, it was as if she were present. Those Barbie dolls represented the softer side of the woman, the little girl who had been forced to grow-up too fast when her father died. In a way, Barbie represented not so much the grown-up image, as an adult revisitation of a short, short childhood.
Because their dresses all needed repair, the dozen dolls were naked, with red bows tied around their waists.
[I should've asked him about the red ribbons, but I didn't really want to know.]
After dinner, my friend (let's call him Alphonse) went into the kitchen to fix coffee and get dessert. When he came back, his boyfriend had a Barbie doll deep in his mouth, and three of the others were lying on the table cloth, wet, with stained bows.
His eyes were closed, and he looked blissed out.
Wouldn't you rather have some pie first? Or are you really that horny?"
Alphonse admits that he had been disturbed to find his boyfriend sucking Barbie Dolls.
Yes, Barbie dolls do have a certain shape and size, but really, they are sexually quite unappealing.
At least, one would think so.
He doesn't entirely believe the story about the cat accidentally knocking some of the dolls off their pedestal into the plate of stew. And the explanation that his boyfriend didn't want any of the stew to go to waste, while very flattering (Alphonse prides himself on being a good cook), is not convincing.
Alphonse and his boy friend are still living together. The Barbie dolls are in the living room, lined up on the mantelpiece. But they remain fully clothed. Alphonse refuses to let his boyfriend undress them, because he just doesn't trust him around naked plastic objects.
And he says that the boyfriend still has 'mother issues'.
Personally, I think both of them have issues, but I don't want to go there.
Barbie dolls make good legionnaires, by the way. But they have to be completely naked.
Dresses (or bows) just don't look right.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And remarkably, this has nothing to do with fetishes.
NAKED INVASION FORCE
When I was a child one of my friends and I would play at the kitchen table. Now, as youngsters in Europe, we were familiar with Asterix and Obelix - two comic strip characters in an ongoing series about a small Gallic village beating off the Romans encamped all around them at the time of Julius Caesar. You have probably read some of the episodes.
When you were seven or eight years old, you may have even incorporated elements of the 'tale' into your games.
Instead of 'Cowboys and Indians', you could have been 'Gauls and Legionnaires'.
One day the Gauls had a remarkable victory over the Romans. There was boasting and much manly posturing.
The part of the Gauls was played by a snap pea and a potato, embodying the physical characteristics of Asterix (small) and Obelix (very large) respectively.
The part of the Romans was played by my friend's sisters' collection of Barbie dolls.
When the Barbie dolls (Romans) died in battle, they were all naked.
The reason being that what they had been wearing was not correct for the period. Totally unsuitable, in fact - short skirts and frilly blouses, feh! And Romans were often naked, so it seemed logical to undress them.
Romans, naked - ergo dead Romans, still naked.
His father didn't immediately grasp the "truthiness" of the scene.
When the old man came into the kitchen and saw a pile of naked Barbie dolls next to two cheering vegetables, he dropped his cigar.
After he heard the explanation, however, he was reassured that there weren't two little freakazoids in the kitchen.
He told us to ask him sometime about the Sabine women, and left.
In retrospect, it could've been worse. We could have played French Revolution and decapitated the naked Barbies.
[When we did 'Germans versus allies' the German soldiers were naked too.]
It wasn't until three or four happy years later that we finally put their clothes back on.
By then their nudity and their biological inaccuracy was an issue.
It just didn't look right anymore. Kinda creepy.
NASTY LITTLE DOLLS
Recently a friend of mine described Mothers Day a few years ago, when he became convinced that his boyfriend was a pervert.
His boyfriend's mother had died a few months before, and one of the things he had received from her before her death was her collection of Barbie Dolls. On Mother's Day, he had put them on a little pedestal on the dining room table. Symbolically, it was as if she were present. Those Barbie dolls represented the softer side of the woman, the little girl who had been forced to grow-up too fast when her father died. In a way, Barbie represented not so much the grown-up image, as an adult revisitation of a short, short childhood.
Because their dresses all needed repair, the dozen dolls were naked, with red bows tied around their waists.
[I should've asked him about the red ribbons, but I didn't really want to know.]
After dinner, my friend (let's call him Alphonse) went into the kitchen to fix coffee and get dessert. When he came back, his boyfriend had a Barbie doll deep in his mouth, and three of the others were lying on the table cloth, wet, with stained bows.
His eyes were closed, and he looked blissed out.
Wouldn't you rather have some pie first? Or are you really that horny?"
Alphonse admits that he had been disturbed to find his boyfriend sucking Barbie Dolls.
Yes, Barbie dolls do have a certain shape and size, but really, they are sexually quite unappealing.
At least, one would think so.
He doesn't entirely believe the story about the cat accidentally knocking some of the dolls off their pedestal into the plate of stew. And the explanation that his boyfriend didn't want any of the stew to go to waste, while very flattering (Alphonse prides himself on being a good cook), is not convincing.
Alphonse and his boy friend are still living together. The Barbie dolls are in the living room, lined up on the mantelpiece. But they remain fully clothed. Alphonse refuses to let his boyfriend undress them, because he just doesn't trust him around naked plastic objects.
And he says that the boyfriend still has 'mother issues'.
Personally, I think both of them have issues, but I don't want to go there.
Barbie dolls make good legionnaires, by the way. But they have to be completely naked.
Dresses (or bows) just don't look right.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, May 09, 2011
WUSSY BREAST PARTY
This weekend I could’ve gone to a poker party at a friend's house. More or less in celebration of Mothers' Day, it was going to be a charity event for Breast Cancer Awareness.
And I was pleased to be invited - tickled pink, in fact.
I like breasts. Breasts are very nice.
"Please, let me bring something - cigars, Bourbon, pizza. Just tell me."
The offer was sincere. Breast Cancer Poker Party, oh boy!
No cigars! Smoking is bad for you!
No Bourbon! Some AA members will be there!
No Pizza! There will be Vegan snacks!
No cigars, Bourbon, or pizza? What the hell kind of poker party is this?
Did all of you guys learn to play poker from your computers?
Apparently, not all guys. There would be several variations on womanhood there too.
Including the co-host, a big transgendered green lesbian who used to be a weightlifting champ.
Non-smoking, non-drinking, ex-alcoholic.
With very large artificial..... landscaping.
I decided that there were too many conflicts of interest for me to attend, and declined gracefully.
When I was still in college I took part in a few poker parties. Nothing like a bunch of guys hanging around all evening smoking stogies purchased at Drucquer & Sons on University avenue, scarfing down pepperoni pizza, swilling Bourbon, and telling off-colour jokes. By four o'clock in the morning, everyone has fallen asleep - whether it's the oxygen deprivation or the booze that done 'em in is immaterial.
By ten in the morning, you'll wake up on a couch, seriously groggy and achy.
You'll slowly bring your still-plastered self to an upright position, and survey the damage.
Oh my. Half-eaten pizza everywhere. Empty bottles. Ashtrays filled with butts.
It reeks.
You look at your companions, still sleeping the sleep of the wicked. One of them is on the rug in front of the teevee, head in an overturned bowl of potato chips. One of them is in lying in a recliner, with a layer of drool down his chin. Two of them are slumped over the table.
And one of them is on the other couch. The apartment dog (a retriever) is there too.
Eating a slice of cheese pie off the recumbent body.
She must have fallen asleep while eating, the pizza is wedged between her breasts.
One of the guys, I need to explain, was the mom of one of the guys.
A woman with the body of Marilyn Monroe as Lorelei Lee and the sensibilities of Walther Matthau as Oscar Madison.
She had shared a box of Royal Jamaica Presidentes with us. Anybody who can bring a box of fine cigars to a poker party is a welcome addition.
Even if she is bankrolling her son, and swears that we're all a bunch of sissies.
We didn't dare argue, heck, we couldn't dispute it - she was outdrinking and outsmoking us.
At all times, respect the voice of experience.
One might learn something.
Bourbon and stale pizza - the breakfast of champions.
As well as their moms.
Also champions.
The body of Marilyn Monroe and the sensibilities of Walther Matthau
I'm fairly certain that if she had organized the "Great Mothers Day Breast Cancer Charity Poker Party", there would have been cigars.
And Bourbon, and pizza.
She believed that if you were old enough to stay up all night, you were old enough to make your own decisions about what to stick in your body.
Sometimes, a temple becomes a toilet.
Grown-ups have choices.
Not all rational.
Anyhow, I didn't go to the poker party yesterday, but I do support breast cancer organizations.
We've all been incredibly fond of people who have breasts. Wonderful people.
And breasts are wonderful too.
Support your local mammaries.
Donate.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And I was pleased to be invited - tickled pink, in fact.
I like breasts. Breasts are very nice.
"Please, let me bring something - cigars, Bourbon, pizza. Just tell me."
The offer was sincere. Breast Cancer Poker Party, oh boy!
No cigars! Smoking is bad for you!
No Bourbon! Some AA members will be there!
No Pizza! There will be Vegan snacks!
No cigars, Bourbon, or pizza? What the hell kind of poker party is this?
Did all of you guys learn to play poker from your computers?
Apparently, not all guys. There would be several variations on womanhood there too.
Including the co-host, a big transgendered green lesbian who used to be a weightlifting champ.
Non-smoking, non-drinking, ex-alcoholic.
With very large artificial..... landscaping.
I decided that there were too many conflicts of interest for me to attend, and declined gracefully.
When I was still in college I took part in a few poker parties. Nothing like a bunch of guys hanging around all evening smoking stogies purchased at Drucquer & Sons on University avenue, scarfing down pepperoni pizza, swilling Bourbon, and telling off-colour jokes. By four o'clock in the morning, everyone has fallen asleep - whether it's the oxygen deprivation or the booze that done 'em in is immaterial.
By ten in the morning, you'll wake up on a couch, seriously groggy and achy.
You'll slowly bring your still-plastered self to an upright position, and survey the damage.
Oh my. Half-eaten pizza everywhere. Empty bottles. Ashtrays filled with butts.
It reeks.
You look at your companions, still sleeping the sleep of the wicked. One of them is on the rug in front of the teevee, head in an overturned bowl of potato chips. One of them is in lying in a recliner, with a layer of drool down his chin. Two of them are slumped over the table.
And one of them is on the other couch. The apartment dog (a retriever) is there too.
Eating a slice of cheese pie off the recumbent body.
She must have fallen asleep while eating, the pizza is wedged between her breasts.
One of the guys, I need to explain, was the mom of one of the guys.
A woman with the body of Marilyn Monroe as Lorelei Lee and the sensibilities of Walther Matthau as Oscar Madison.
She had shared a box of Royal Jamaica Presidentes with us. Anybody who can bring a box of fine cigars to a poker party is a welcome addition.
Even if she is bankrolling her son, and swears that we're all a bunch of sissies.
We didn't dare argue, heck, we couldn't dispute it - she was outdrinking and outsmoking us.
At all times, respect the voice of experience.
One might learn something.
Bourbon and stale pizza - the breakfast of champions.
As well as their moms.
Also champions.
The body of Marilyn Monroe and the sensibilities of Walther Matthau
I'm fairly certain that if she had organized the "Great Mothers Day Breast Cancer Charity Poker Party", there would have been cigars.
And Bourbon, and pizza.
She believed that if you were old enough to stay up all night, you were old enough to make your own decisions about what to stick in your body.
Sometimes, a temple becomes a toilet.
Grown-ups have choices.
Not all rational.
Anyhow, I didn't go to the poker party yesterday, but I do support breast cancer organizations.
We've all been incredibly fond of people who have breasts. Wonderful people.
And breasts are wonderful too.
Support your local mammaries.
Donate.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, May 08, 2011
TOTAL VIOLENT AMBIANCE - 古惑仔
One of the typical Cantonese terms that you may have heard is gu wak chai (古惑仔) - "anciently confused youngster".
What it means is hooligan or thug, a teenage ruffian, who will likely come to a bad end.
Probably a juvenile delinquent, and a poor student in school. But one with connections to a gang.
Some are dead by sixteen, others become serious criminals.
Yet others go into marketing, religion, or blogging.
香港電影 HEUNG KONG DIEN YING
Except for those last three careers, the subculture is well represented in Hong Kong gangster movies. Many of which are either a complete rock'em sock'em blast of operatic gore and ultra-violence - the oeuvre of Hong Kong director John Woo (吳宇森 Ng Yu-sam) - OR explore deeper themes of honour, trust, friendship, ethical behaviour, gallantry, etcetera (also frequently seen in the oeuvre of mr. Woo).
A key element underlying the genre is 'yi-hei' (義氣): loyalty to and self-sacrifice for one's friends and sworn brothers.
One can often tell who the bad guy is by their lack of that characteristic on-screen. They are flawed, they lack nobility, and worst of all their actions betray a vileness of spirit.
It shows some epic misbehavior, but this clip is relatively safe.
流氓學校
This is why you're all little monsters! Improper rubbish!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=S5kjisq3NYg
The following clip should only be watched by anthropologists, linguists, and mature audiences.
It might prove a wee bit traumatic for sensitive people.
學校風雲
Ten minutes of rumbling in a nightclub, chase scenes, cleavers, and violent death.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I_loqsYtHKw&feature=related
That last scene was the ending of the movie 'Hok Hau Fung Wan (學校風雲) - School on Fire (produced in 1988).
[Director: 林嶺東 Ringo Lam (Lam Ling-tung). Bad-ass: 張耀揚 Roy Cheung (Cheung Yiu-yeung). Good girl: 袁潔瑩 Fennie Yuen (Yuen Git-ying).]
The movie narratively details the changing personalities of a bunch of high-school punks as some get further involved in organized crime, others for various reasons have second thoughts. Along the way, some people die, some girls are brutalized.
Roy Cheung is the 'older brother' heading the youth-branch of a larger gang, and runs roughshod over their tender spirits. He epitomizes the flawed character who lacks 義氣 and consequently it is most welcome when in the last minute of the movie he gets what's coming.
You will cheer when his already dying body goes over the edge and plunges to the sharp iron fence spikes below.
Saw the movie at the Pagoda Palace Theatre on Columbus Street several years ago. Even the young hoodlums who customarily hung out there seemed chastened after the movie was over.
It was probably his lack of gallantry, more than the horrific scenes, that quieted them. Older Brother Smart was a right bastard, cruel, vicious, vindictive, and entirely devoid of any 義氣 whatsoever.
Having grown up on both sword-hero (劍俠 kiem hap) and triad (黑社會 hak sei wui) movies, the social environments of which are collectively known as Gong Wu (江湖 rivers and lakes), the various local 古惑仔 aspired to at least a modicum of gallantry.
Right behaviour, even if one is on the wrong side of the law, is an important element in the Cantonese weltanschauung.
做好漢子 TSO HOU-HON JI
What might seem a didactic imposition in a Hollywood flick, and would be crudely overdone besides in the hands of English-speakers, was often a necessary element of the Hong Kong movie - audiences felt cheated if the heroes and heroines did not demonstrate how a person should act.
No matter the situation, some values are universal.
Adhering to a code of conduct proves that one is part of the human family.
And only those who truly grasp what loyalty, gallantry, and decency mean can epitomize right behaviour.
All men are brothers. Those who do not act accordingly put themselves beyond consideration.
後記 AFTERWORD
For a truly classic rendition of the right bastard without a shred of 義氣, you really should watch the movie Gaam Yuk Fung Wan (監獄風雲) - Prison on Fire (1987), also directed by Ringo Lam, with Roy Cheung as the vicious prison officer. This is the movie that established Roy Cheung's reputation as an able enactor of the evil psychopath role. When one of the prisoners, played by Chou Yun-fat (周潤發) bit off his ear, the audience roared their appreciation. The sob deserved it!
我叫你做食屎狗!
Ngoh kieu nei tso sik si gau ('I'm calling you a shit-eating dog').
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=BiYrcOv98Co
Prison on fire is worth watching also because the actions of Ah-Ching (Chow Yun-fat) perfectly epitomize the instinctive gallantry so admired by the Cantonese.
He may be a lower-class shlub, but he's got the right stuff - a sense of decency.
義氣
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
What it means is hooligan or thug, a teenage ruffian, who will likely come to a bad end.
Probably a juvenile delinquent, and a poor student in school. But one with connections to a gang.
Some are dead by sixteen, others become serious criminals.
Yet others go into marketing, religion, or blogging.
香港電影 HEUNG KONG DIEN YING
Except for those last three careers, the subculture is well represented in Hong Kong gangster movies. Many of which are either a complete rock'em sock'em blast of operatic gore and ultra-violence - the oeuvre of Hong Kong director John Woo (吳宇森 Ng Yu-sam) - OR explore deeper themes of honour, trust, friendship, ethical behaviour, gallantry, etcetera (also frequently seen in the oeuvre of mr. Woo).
A key element underlying the genre is 'yi-hei' (義氣): loyalty to and self-sacrifice for one's friends and sworn brothers.
One can often tell who the bad guy is by their lack of that characteristic on-screen. They are flawed, they lack nobility, and worst of all their actions betray a vileness of spirit.
It shows some epic misbehavior, but this clip is relatively safe.
流氓學校
This is why you're all little monsters! Improper rubbish!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=S5kjisq3NYg
The following clip should only be watched by anthropologists, linguists, and mature audiences.
It might prove a wee bit traumatic for sensitive people.
學校風雲
Ten minutes of rumbling in a nightclub, chase scenes, cleavers, and violent death.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I_loqsYtHKw&feature=related
That last scene was the ending of the movie 'Hok Hau Fung Wan (學校風雲) - School on Fire (produced in 1988).
[Director: 林嶺東 Ringo Lam (Lam Ling-tung). Bad-ass: 張耀揚 Roy Cheung (Cheung Yiu-yeung). Good girl: 袁潔瑩 Fennie Yuen (Yuen Git-ying).]
The movie narratively details the changing personalities of a bunch of high-school punks as some get further involved in organized crime, others for various reasons have second thoughts. Along the way, some people die, some girls are brutalized.
Roy Cheung is the 'older brother' heading the youth-branch of a larger gang, and runs roughshod over their tender spirits. He epitomizes the flawed character who lacks 義氣 and consequently it is most welcome when in the last minute of the movie he gets what's coming.
You will cheer when his already dying body goes over the edge and plunges to the sharp iron fence spikes below.
Saw the movie at the Pagoda Palace Theatre on Columbus Street several years ago. Even the young hoodlums who customarily hung out there seemed chastened after the movie was over.
It was probably his lack of gallantry, more than the horrific scenes, that quieted them. Older Brother Smart was a right bastard, cruel, vicious, vindictive, and entirely devoid of any 義氣 whatsoever.
Having grown up on both sword-hero (劍俠 kiem hap) and triad (黑社會 hak sei wui) movies, the social environments of which are collectively known as Gong Wu (江湖 rivers and lakes), the various local 古惑仔 aspired to at least a modicum of gallantry.
Right behaviour, even if one is on the wrong side of the law, is an important element in the Cantonese weltanschauung.
做好漢子 TSO HOU-HON JI
What might seem a didactic imposition in a Hollywood flick, and would be crudely overdone besides in the hands of English-speakers, was often a necessary element of the Hong Kong movie - audiences felt cheated if the heroes and heroines did not demonstrate how a person should act.
No matter the situation, some values are universal.
Adhering to a code of conduct proves that one is part of the human family.
And only those who truly grasp what loyalty, gallantry, and decency mean can epitomize right behaviour.
All men are brothers. Those who do not act accordingly put themselves beyond consideration.
後記 AFTERWORD
For a truly classic rendition of the right bastard without a shred of 義氣, you really should watch the movie Gaam Yuk Fung Wan (監獄風雲) - Prison on Fire (1987), also directed by Ringo Lam, with Roy Cheung as the vicious prison officer. This is the movie that established Roy Cheung's reputation as an able enactor of the evil psychopath role. When one of the prisoners, played by Chou Yun-fat (周潤發) bit off his ear, the audience roared their appreciation. The sob deserved it!
我叫你做食屎狗!
Ngoh kieu nei tso sik si gau ('I'm calling you a shit-eating dog').
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=BiYrcOv98Co
Prison on fire is worth watching also because the actions of Ah-Ching (Chow Yun-fat) perfectly epitomize the instinctive gallantry so admired by the Cantonese.
He may be a lower-class shlub, but he's got the right stuff - a sense of decency.
義氣
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, May 06, 2011
TROLLING FOR JACK & JACQUELINE THE RIPPER
Underneath recent postings on this blog one of my regular readers advocates riotous orgies with strangers, or something similar.
He represents a kinder, gentler era – the freewheeling irresponsible casual sex with random people and drug-sniffing dogs while wearing beads and tie-dye life-style of the flower-power years.
I’ve seen the photos and documentaries of that period, and there is much that appalls me (not least the clothes).
He wrote:
“I found myself downtown - San Francisco, at shortly after sunrise. The streets were full of fantastically attractive young women wearing "cocktail hour" type outfits and carrying high heels, walking barefoot and somewhat "worse for wear" looking, disheveled etcetera. Perhaps I witnessed a plethora doing "the walk of shame" after a booze fueled , one night stand. Sort of like "Urban National Geographic on 'San Franciscan mating rituals' or something." What think?”
What did I think? I thought that attractive women would still be asleep at that hour.
His response indicated that he did not quite catch my drift.
“Absolutely!....and likely asleep somewhere expensive, eh? A truly beautiful woman is not likely to have the necessity of being out early. Some smitten man is likely "taking care" of her. Life is different for them.”
Come again?
EXPENSIVE SLEEPING
There are many women who do not wish to be taken care of.
Independence is something to be appreciated; it does not detract from beauty, but adds to it.
And being smitten may, in fact, apply to both parties in any case, and should not have an implication of being 'taking care of somewhere expensive'.
Furthermore, a woman wandering around zotsed, barefoot and somewhat worse for wear is not “fantastically attractive”.
Not at sunrise, not at any hour of the day.
If it was a “booze fueled one night stand”, she probably looks more nauseated than anything else. Whether it was the liquor, the man in question, or belated regret over her complete lapse of sense and judgment that sickened her may be up to question.
Getting bombed should not precede amorous activity, nor inspire it.
My comment about 'still asleep at that hour' implied that whatever may have happened during the evening before should not interfere with being somewhere safe and comfortable, and being able to remain there till a civilized time of day.
CASUAL SEX
There isn’t anything intrinsically wrong with casual sex, provided it’s with someone you know and trust, and with whom you do actually have a relationship.
The two of you might, for instance, decide that there’s just enough time before the guests arrive for a quick bit of totally superficial whoopee.
And why not?
It’s your dining room table, and you can always put out a different set of plates.
The problem is casual sex with someone unknown. Shared intoxication is just not enough to establish reasonable familiarity.
At the very least, does the other person have a proven track record of NOT being Jack (or Jacqueline) the Ripper?
Not knowing your partner turns it into a version of Russian roulette.
She might be Charlie Manson’s reincarnation, or he could be Nurse Ratchet cleverly disguised.
Another thing wrong with the picture my reader painted was fantastically attractive young women in cocktail dresses and high heels roaming the streets at five in the morning.
I find this very disturbing.
It's far too risky for a woman, and just asking for trouble.
If anyone is going to roam the streets at that hour in a cocktail dress and high heels, it should be him.
It's the gentlemanly thing to do.
Let’s face it, the whole 'humping like rabid ferrets after alcohol and midnight pizza' paradigm exemplifies horrible decision-making.
It doesn’t say anything good about the people involved, and certainly proves that they are lacking in some respects.
Far better that they should see each other a few times, perhaps for tea and cake, or dinner and a movie.
In due course the two of them can then decide that the relationship has reached a certain stage.
Either requiring more cake (and more tea), or something else.
Holding hands, or parts of each other.
At a reasonable time of day.
Or, if it DOES happen in the middle of the night, happily looking forward to enjoying breakfast together.
Not fleeing the apartment looking distraught and wearing cocktail dresses.
Happy sex means liking the other person’s company.
Not having hangovers and indigestion.
Remember: tea and cake. Not booze and cheese pie.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
He represents a kinder, gentler era – the freewheeling irresponsible casual sex with random people and drug-sniffing dogs while wearing beads and tie-dye life-style of the flower-power years.
I’ve seen the photos and documentaries of that period, and there is much that appalls me (not least the clothes).
He wrote:
“I found myself downtown - San Francisco, at shortly after sunrise. The streets were full of fantastically attractive young women wearing "cocktail hour" type outfits and carrying high heels, walking barefoot and somewhat "worse for wear" looking, disheveled etcetera. Perhaps I witnessed a plethora doing "the walk of shame" after a booze fueled , one night stand. Sort of like "Urban National Geographic on 'San Franciscan mating rituals' or something." What think?”
What did I think? I thought that attractive women would still be asleep at that hour.
His response indicated that he did not quite catch my drift.
“Absolutely!....and likely asleep somewhere expensive, eh? A truly beautiful woman is not likely to have the necessity of being out early. Some smitten man is likely "taking care" of her. Life is different for them.”
Come again?
EXPENSIVE SLEEPING
There are many women who do not wish to be taken care of.
Independence is something to be appreciated; it does not detract from beauty, but adds to it.
And being smitten may, in fact, apply to both parties in any case, and should not have an implication of being 'taking care of somewhere expensive'.
Furthermore, a woman wandering around zotsed, barefoot and somewhat worse for wear is not “fantastically attractive”.
Not at sunrise, not at any hour of the day.
If it was a “booze fueled one night stand”, she probably looks more nauseated than anything else. Whether it was the liquor, the man in question, or belated regret over her complete lapse of sense and judgment that sickened her may be up to question.
Getting bombed should not precede amorous activity, nor inspire it.
My comment about 'still asleep at that hour' implied that whatever may have happened during the evening before should not interfere with being somewhere safe and comfortable, and being able to remain there till a civilized time of day.
CASUAL SEX
There isn’t anything intrinsically wrong with casual sex, provided it’s with someone you know and trust, and with whom you do actually have a relationship.
The two of you might, for instance, decide that there’s just enough time before the guests arrive for a quick bit of totally superficial whoopee.
And why not?
It’s your dining room table, and you can always put out a different set of plates.
The problem is casual sex with someone unknown. Shared intoxication is just not enough to establish reasonable familiarity.
At the very least, does the other person have a proven track record of NOT being Jack (or Jacqueline) the Ripper?
Not knowing your partner turns it into a version of Russian roulette.
She might be Charlie Manson’s reincarnation, or he could be Nurse Ratchet cleverly disguised.
Another thing wrong with the picture my reader painted was fantastically attractive young women in cocktail dresses and high heels roaming the streets at five in the morning.
I find this very disturbing.
It's far too risky for a woman, and just asking for trouble.
If anyone is going to roam the streets at that hour in a cocktail dress and high heels, it should be him.
It's the gentlemanly thing to do.
Let’s face it, the whole 'humping like rabid ferrets after alcohol and midnight pizza' paradigm exemplifies horrible decision-making.
It doesn’t say anything good about the people involved, and certainly proves that they are lacking in some respects.
Far better that they should see each other a few times, perhaps for tea and cake, or dinner and a movie.
In due course the two of them can then decide that the relationship has reached a certain stage.
Either requiring more cake (and more tea), or something else.
Holding hands, or parts of each other.
At a reasonable time of day.
Or, if it DOES happen in the middle of the night, happily looking forward to enjoying breakfast together.
Not fleeing the apartment looking distraught and wearing cocktail dresses.
Happy sex means liking the other person’s company.
Not having hangovers and indigestion.
Remember: tea and cake. Not booze and cheese pie.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I AM BORAT. OR SOMETHING!
I think she's absolutely delightful.
I have almost no idea what she thinks of me.
It is likely that I will misplay this. That seems to be almost inevitable.
But while I make fool of myself, I will at least enjoy being near her.
That, too, is good.
She is VERY cute. Dammit. Utterly adorable. And so nice!
Intelligent.
A totally and completely wantable person.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I have almost no idea what she thinks of me.
It is likely that I will misplay this. That seems to be almost inevitable.
But while I make fool of myself, I will at least enjoy being near her.
That, too, is good.
She is VERY cute. Dammit. Utterly adorable. And so nice!
Intelligent.
A totally and completely wantable person.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, May 05, 2011
WHAT WOMEN SHOULD WEAR IN SPRING - NO, IT'S NOT MANGA BABE OUTFITS!
The original title of this post was "Torn Blue Panties and Frilly Pink Bras", in honour of a regular reader's recent assertion that "this blog is getting better every day!"
But I decided against it.
The first reason being that I didn't want to scare off any young ladies who might wander in - there are so few young ladies in my life that each and every one of them is precious - and the second reason is that this post is NOT about torn blue panties and frilly pink bras.
Even though I personally am enchanted by feminine underwear, and could consequently read 1960's Sears Roebuck catalogues for hours at a stretch, I fear that my readers are not so inclined.
Nor that resolute.
So, no panties, no bras.
WHAT WOMEN SHOULD WEAR IN SPRING
Ladies, may I suggest that high-heels are NOT a good idea? Yes, they do wonderful things to your rumps. Unfortunately the horrible effect on your posture and your locomotive flow is aza shreklekh that it does you more harm than good, and falling head over kilter while twisting your ankle distracts us so horribly that we cannot benefit from seeing your undergarments exposed.
My dear, this is San Francisco! You can rely on the wind to exhibit frilly bits! Really!
Female residents of Chicago are equally blessed, btw.
By the same token, tight white pants are not a good idea either. No one wants to see the imprint in your thighs of the chair that last you occupied, OR the uncomfortable thong thing going up the arroyo.
White pants add twenty pounds to your weight. Just so you know.
Skirts are fine. Skirts are, in fact, purely excellent. Just remember that we aren't your gynecologists.
Unless you have really charming legs.
In which case a whole bunch of us may express regrets about the career path we have chosen.
Was that the effect you intended?
Again, avoid thongs. We prefer to have a positive mental image of spaghetti.
Thank you.
Regarding tops, showing too much is far worse than far too little. And by that I mean silk, cotton, or linen. Fabric. Please wear some.
If you have a lovely cleavage, it should be the crème brûlée at the end of dinner, not the extensive preview of coming attractions.
A present is ALWAYS nicer if wrapped, instead of just plonked in front of you with a grunted "here, yours".
Like with the white pants, avoid tight. Nothing is more painful to the eyes than seeing a back cut in half by a brassiere that is too small, or a stomach that is painfully taught against the tortured fabric.
We like bras, just like we appreciate panties. If you really want us to know the brand you're wearing, nothing beats a discrete invite.
Sharing it with Tom, Dick, and Harry lessens our interest considerably.
A simple white shirt or blouse is perfect, however. Yes.
SHAMPOO!
And finally, please wash your hair. Even if it doesn't need it. And use a real shampoo - not one of those trollop in a bottle brands.
Most of you are shorter than us men (especially if you took my advice and ditched the chase-me-fudge-me heels), and on a tightly packed bus heading downtown early in the morning, my nose may be mere inches away from your golden ringlets.
You had spaghetti last night, didn't you? I'm not getting a good feeling about spaghetti right now.
It just doesn't combine well with Fructease. Or Desert Temptress. Or whatever that ghastly sweet muck is.
And you sweated while you slept. Or did your cat pee on you? Whatever.
Remember, if I vomit, my mouth is mere inches away!
FINAL WORD
All of this is actually immaterial. Most men have no taste and no sense of smell anyhow. As a gender, we tend toward totally oblivious.
And in the middle of the working day, we'll be far too distracted by work, or our own chafing underwear, to notice you. Dang, that itch! These tidy-whities are too tight and white!
Can I get away with turning around and discretely scratching? Why does it feel like sandpaper down there?
Should I have shaved? Plucked?
* * * * *
In other words, it's just me. I care what you wear.
I wear boxers, so there is no chafing. None. I'm comfy.
Young ladies wearing skirts & blouses, or nice summer frocks. Mmmm!
Clean-smelling hair. Mmm!
Just tripping along, expressing the freshness and beauty of spring. Mm!
Good posture! Excellent locomotive flow!
Mmmmm!
Now if you could just gather that lovely hair into a bouncy ponytail.......
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But I decided against it.
The first reason being that I didn't want to scare off any young ladies who might wander in - there are so few young ladies in my life that each and every one of them is precious - and the second reason is that this post is NOT about torn blue panties and frilly pink bras.
Even though I personally am enchanted by feminine underwear, and could consequently read 1960's Sears Roebuck catalogues for hours at a stretch, I fear that my readers are not so inclined.
Nor that resolute.
So, no panties, no bras.
WHAT WOMEN SHOULD WEAR IN SPRING
Ladies, may I suggest that high-heels are NOT a good idea? Yes, they do wonderful things to your rumps. Unfortunately the horrible effect on your posture and your locomotive flow is aza shreklekh that it does you more harm than good, and falling head over kilter while twisting your ankle distracts us so horribly that we cannot benefit from seeing your undergarments exposed.
My dear, this is San Francisco! You can rely on the wind to exhibit frilly bits! Really!
Female residents of Chicago are equally blessed, btw.
By the same token, tight white pants are not a good idea either. No one wants to see the imprint in your thighs of the chair that last you occupied, OR the uncomfortable thong thing going up the arroyo.
White pants add twenty pounds to your weight. Just so you know.
Skirts are fine. Skirts are, in fact, purely excellent. Just remember that we aren't your gynecologists.
Unless you have really charming legs.
In which case a whole bunch of us may express regrets about the career path we have chosen.
Was that the effect you intended?
Again, avoid thongs. We prefer to have a positive mental image of spaghetti.
Thank you.
Regarding tops, showing too much is far worse than far too little. And by that I mean silk, cotton, or linen. Fabric. Please wear some.
If you have a lovely cleavage, it should be the crème brûlée at the end of dinner, not the extensive preview of coming attractions.
A present is ALWAYS nicer if wrapped, instead of just plonked in front of you with a grunted "here, yours".
Like with the white pants, avoid tight. Nothing is more painful to the eyes than seeing a back cut in half by a brassiere that is too small, or a stomach that is painfully taught against the tortured fabric.
We like bras, just like we appreciate panties. If you really want us to know the brand you're wearing, nothing beats a discrete invite.
Sharing it with Tom, Dick, and Harry lessens our interest considerably.
A simple white shirt or blouse is perfect, however. Yes.
SHAMPOO!
And finally, please wash your hair. Even if it doesn't need it. And use a real shampoo - not one of those trollop in a bottle brands.
Most of you are shorter than us men (especially if you took my advice and ditched the chase-me-fudge-me heels), and on a tightly packed bus heading downtown early in the morning, my nose may be mere inches away from your golden ringlets.
You had spaghetti last night, didn't you? I'm not getting a good feeling about spaghetti right now.
It just doesn't combine well with Fructease. Or Desert Temptress. Or whatever that ghastly sweet muck is.
And you sweated while you slept. Or did your cat pee on you? Whatever.
Remember, if I vomit, my mouth is mere inches away!
FINAL WORD
All of this is actually immaterial. Most men have no taste and no sense of smell anyhow. As a gender, we tend toward totally oblivious.
And in the middle of the working day, we'll be far too distracted by work, or our own chafing underwear, to notice you. Dang, that itch! These tidy-whities are too tight and white!
Can I get away with turning around and discretely scratching? Why does it feel like sandpaper down there?
Should I have shaved? Plucked?
* * * * *
In other words, it's just me. I care what you wear.
I wear boxers, so there is no chafing. None. I'm comfy.
Young ladies wearing skirts & blouses, or nice summer frocks. Mmmm!
Clean-smelling hair. Mmm!
Just tripping along, expressing the freshness and beauty of spring. Mm!
Good posture! Excellent locomotive flow!
Mmmmm!
Now if you could just gather that lovely hair into a bouncy ponytail.......
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
BEST CHINESE FOOD IN SAN FRANCISCO: SWEET AND SOUR PORK
I can see you scratching your head, after reading the title of this post.
"What", you are wondering, "is he on about this time?"
And perhaps you are thinking that I have really lost it.
After all, sweet and sour pork is such a cliché.
Waspy people who live far from any large Chinese-American communities eat sweet and sour pork.
Large spongy white people with Scandinavian or German accents from the vast interior order sweet and sour pork.
Fercrapssakes, tourists in Chinatown LOVE sweet and sour pork!
Along with chow mein, chop suey, and egg rolls.
It's a glow-in-the-dark feast!
Perfect with fried rice, too!
Well, yes.
But sweet and sour pork is also probably the very first Chinese-American restaurant dish.
Imagine a bunch of nineteenth century Cantonese gentlemen in the High Sierras deciding that panning for gold may not be as rewarding as they once thought. And, having subsisted on some of the weirdest long-distance muck in their lives for over a year, deciding that what was really missing in that particular place was decent food.
So they open a restaurant.
Big Gold Mountain Refined Eats (大金山垃圾嘢食方).
This is the situation:
They're surrounded by miles and miles of barbarous waste.
No soy sauce. No hoisin sauce or oyster sauce - neither of those products had been standardized yet in the eighteen sixties.
No plum sauce. No rice wine. No sesame oil.
No fermented black beans, toban jeung, lajeung, or suen choi.
[Soy sauce: si yau (豉油). Hoisin sauce: hoisin jeung (海鲜酱). Oyster sauce: hou yau (蠔油). Plum sauce: suen moei jeung (蘇梅醬). Rice wine: wong jau (黄酒). Sesame oil: jee ma yau (芝麻油). Fermented black beans: dau si (豆豉). Toban jeung ('bean ferments' sauce): 豆瓣醬. Lajeung (hot sauce): 辣酱. Suen choi (sour vegetable): 酸菜.]
In fact, almost every comestible or flavouring ingredient that Cantonese people would like to have in their kitchen is singularly missing. California is still a sparsely populated and primitive place in that era, and both Chinese and European food-stuffs are brought in by clippers from across the Pacific or around the horn. Consequently, very few non-local ingredients are available.
The history of 'cuisine' in this state is the tale of Chinese and Japanese farmers and their market-gardens adding variety to the diet, plus all immigrant groups eventually manufacturing the necessary products for their own cooking styles.
But the very first Chinese American restaurants predate those developments.
大金山垃圾嘢食方
TAAI KAMSAN LAPSAPYEH SIKFONG
The Cantonese gentlemen of our tale are very far from civilization indeed.
They have a pig (yat jek fei chyu 一隻肥猪).
Plus sugar (tong 糖), salt (yim 鹽), vinegar (tsou 醋), lard (fan yau 葷油), and clothes' starch (fan jeung 粉漿).
[Don't ask why they have clothes' starch - complicated story.]
And there's a huge horde of hungry sweaty white men outside the door!
" 嘩, 外便有好多鬼佬嘅喎! 咁臭啊! "
You can see where this is going, can't you?
Desperation prompts invention.
甜酸肉
TIEM SUEN YIUK
A simple dish, in which meat is made magic by the addition of very common-place ingredients.
Nothing strange or unusual, no risk-taking by the customers required.
Along with a nice hearty plate of chow-mein you've got everything a gold miner freezing his tuchus off would want.
Flavoured and texturized animal protein, plus a savoury fried starchy substance.
The only thing missing is whiskey.
For nearly a century following that simple act of culinary prestidigitation, Chinese-American food advanced by inventing variations on the theme.
Tomato Beef, Lemon Chicken, Orange Peel Duck.
Fried Rice, Chow Mein, Chow Fun.
[Tomato Beef: fan-keh ngau-yiuk (番茄牛肉). Lemon Chicken: ning-mong kai (檸檬雞). Orange Peel Duck: chan-pei ngaap (陳皮鴨).
Fried Rice: chao fan (炒飯). Chow Mein: chao mien (炒麵). Chow Fun: chao f'n (炒粉) .]
The key to all these dishes is that they are essentially white folks food.
Very Anglo, in fact.
Meat sauced slightly sweet and tangy, and greased-up starch.
Plus one or two additions, for garnish and excitement.
The hamburger (漢堡包) that we all love embodies the same concept.
And like the previously mentioned dishes, the only thing missing is whiskey.
[Whiskey: waisikei jau (威士忌酒). One glas of whiskey: yat pui waisikei (一盃威士忌).]
Only Chop Suey (雜碎) is more American.
And it, too, is thoroughly familiar to everyone, including those who avoid strong drink.
MAKING IT, EATING IT
To make sweet and sour pork, simply stirfry sliced pig with chopped bellpepper, onion (洋葱) and celery (芹菜), then sauce it with diluted vinegar and sugar, plus the usual corn starch and water solution.
Red food colouring, ketchup, and pineapple may be added to taste.
Soy sauce is optional and may be omitted - most white folk will drizzle it over their fried rice in any case, so its absence from the entrée will not be noticed.
The meat can be coated first: eggwhite and water whisked together with a pinch of salt, meat therein, rested in the refrigerator for an hour, then dusted with cornflour, and evenly browned. Cook the meat, remove to a plate, then stirfry the vegetables.
Taste the sauce mixture before adding it to the pan - adjust the flavour with either sugar or vinegar. Pour it into the pan with the vegetables, dump in the meat, and heat through.
But to really enjoy this dish in its native environment, head up to Grant Avenue and look for a restaurant with a whole bunch of happy white people inside.
If they look big, pink, and corn-fed, so much the better!
AFTERWORD
Several years ago we were at a Chinese restaurant out in the avenues.
The menu had a six or seven pages of seafood dishes, and there were tanks with live fish and crustaceans along two walls. It was very obvious what they were proud of, and the several tables of happy Chinese American families feasting on poached, braised, fried, or stewed finned food were abundant testimony that such pride was justified.
Three Caucasians came in, sat down, and spent ten minutes poring over the menu.
Then they ordered three servings of sweet and sour pork over rice.
Doesn't that prove how deservedly appreciated this dish is?
Bon appetit!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"What", you are wondering, "is he on about this time?"
And perhaps you are thinking that I have really lost it.
After all, sweet and sour pork is such a cliché.
Waspy people who live far from any large Chinese-American communities eat sweet and sour pork.
Large spongy white people with Scandinavian or German accents from the vast interior order sweet and sour pork.
Fercrapssakes, tourists in Chinatown LOVE sweet and sour pork!
Along with chow mein, chop suey, and egg rolls.
It's a glow-in-the-dark feast!
Perfect with fried rice, too!
Well, yes.
But sweet and sour pork is also probably the very first Chinese-American restaurant dish.
Imagine a bunch of nineteenth century Cantonese gentlemen in the High Sierras deciding that panning for gold may not be as rewarding as they once thought. And, having subsisted on some of the weirdest long-distance muck in their lives for over a year, deciding that what was really missing in that particular place was decent food.
So they open a restaurant.
Big Gold Mountain Refined Eats (大金山垃圾嘢食方).
This is the situation:
They're surrounded by miles and miles of barbarous waste.
No soy sauce. No hoisin sauce or oyster sauce - neither of those products had been standardized yet in the eighteen sixties.
No plum sauce. No rice wine. No sesame oil.
No fermented black beans, toban jeung, lajeung, or suen choi.
[Soy sauce: si yau (豉油). Hoisin sauce: hoisin jeung (海鲜酱). Oyster sauce: hou yau (蠔油). Plum sauce: suen moei jeung (蘇梅醬). Rice wine: wong jau (黄酒). Sesame oil: jee ma yau (芝麻油). Fermented black beans: dau si (豆豉). Toban jeung ('bean ferments' sauce): 豆瓣醬. Lajeung (hot sauce): 辣酱. Suen choi (sour vegetable): 酸菜.]
In fact, almost every comestible or flavouring ingredient that Cantonese people would like to have in their kitchen is singularly missing. California is still a sparsely populated and primitive place in that era, and both Chinese and European food-stuffs are brought in by clippers from across the Pacific or around the horn. Consequently, very few non-local ingredients are available.
The history of 'cuisine' in this state is the tale of Chinese and Japanese farmers and their market-gardens adding variety to the diet, plus all immigrant groups eventually manufacturing the necessary products for their own cooking styles.
But the very first Chinese American restaurants predate those developments.
大金山垃圾嘢食方
TAAI KAMSAN LAPSAPYEH SIKFONG
The Cantonese gentlemen of our tale are very far from civilization indeed.
They have a pig (yat jek fei chyu 一隻肥猪).
Plus sugar (tong 糖), salt (yim 鹽), vinegar (tsou 醋), lard (fan yau 葷油), and clothes' starch (fan jeung 粉漿).
[Don't ask why they have clothes' starch - complicated story.]
And there's a huge horde of hungry sweaty white men outside the door!
" 嘩, 外便有好多鬼佬嘅喎! 咁臭啊! "
You can see where this is going, can't you?
Desperation prompts invention.
甜酸肉
TIEM SUEN YIUK
A simple dish, in which meat is made magic by the addition of very common-place ingredients.
Nothing strange or unusual, no risk-taking by the customers required.
Along with a nice hearty plate of chow-mein you've got everything a gold miner freezing his tuchus off would want.
Flavoured and texturized animal protein, plus a savoury fried starchy substance.
The only thing missing is whiskey.
For nearly a century following that simple act of culinary prestidigitation, Chinese-American food advanced by inventing variations on the theme.
Tomato Beef, Lemon Chicken, Orange Peel Duck.
Fried Rice, Chow Mein, Chow Fun.
[Tomato Beef: fan-keh ngau-yiuk (番茄牛肉). Lemon Chicken: ning-mong kai (檸檬雞). Orange Peel Duck: chan-pei ngaap (陳皮鴨).
Fried Rice: chao fan (炒飯). Chow Mein: chao mien (炒麵). Chow Fun: chao f'n (炒粉) .]
The key to all these dishes is that they are essentially white folks food.
Very Anglo, in fact.
Meat sauced slightly sweet and tangy, and greased-up starch.
Plus one or two additions, for garnish and excitement.
The hamburger (漢堡包) that we all love embodies the same concept.
And like the previously mentioned dishes, the only thing missing is whiskey.
[Whiskey: waisikei jau (威士忌酒). One glas of whiskey: yat pui waisikei (一盃威士忌).]
Only Chop Suey (雜碎) is more American.
And it, too, is thoroughly familiar to everyone, including those who avoid strong drink.
MAKING IT, EATING IT
To make sweet and sour pork, simply stirfry sliced pig with chopped bellpepper, onion (洋葱) and celery (芹菜), then sauce it with diluted vinegar and sugar, plus the usual corn starch and water solution.
Red food colouring, ketchup, and pineapple may be added to taste.
Soy sauce is optional and may be omitted - most white folk will drizzle it over their fried rice in any case, so its absence from the entrée will not be noticed.
The meat can be coated first: eggwhite and water whisked together with a pinch of salt, meat therein, rested in the refrigerator for an hour, then dusted with cornflour, and evenly browned. Cook the meat, remove to a plate, then stirfry the vegetables.
Taste the sauce mixture before adding it to the pan - adjust the flavour with either sugar or vinegar. Pour it into the pan with the vegetables, dump in the meat, and heat through.
But to really enjoy this dish in its native environment, head up to Grant Avenue and look for a restaurant with a whole bunch of happy white people inside.
If they look big, pink, and corn-fed, so much the better!
AFTERWORD
Several years ago we were at a Chinese restaurant out in the avenues.
The menu had a six or seven pages of seafood dishes, and there were tanks with live fish and crustaceans along two walls. It was very obvious what they were proud of, and the several tables of happy Chinese American families feasting on poached, braised, fried, or stewed finned food were abundant testimony that such pride was justified.
Three Caucasians came in, sat down, and spent ten minutes poring over the menu.
Then they ordered three servings of sweet and sour pork over rice.
Doesn't that prove how deservedly appreciated this dish is?
Bon appetit!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, May 03, 2011
CHINESE LABELS CLARIFIED
Over the years various clickable labels have appeared on this blog. Labels allow readers to call up a whole slew of posts on more or less the same subject, or in the same general category.
Some labels are LESS than usefull.
In that category:
Baffelyk
Bestiality
Bikinis
Pale blue panties
Panties
Penguins
If anything, they indicate the mood I was in when I wrote the posts more than anything else.
Oh, and also that I am inordinately fond of penguins.
Penguins are cool.
As, of course, are panties and bikinis. Our civilization would be much poorer without them.
Pale blue is good. Pale blue panties are too.
Most labels are fairly self-explanatory.
There are also a few labels which are in Chinese. Not quite so clear, wherefore I will elucidate a few.
中文 Chinese writing or literature
南乳 Red fermented tofu
唐人街 Chinatown (specifically, San Francisco C'town)
市德頓街 Stockton Street
春節 Spring Festival (Chinese Newyear)
滙豐 Huy Fong (Sriracha hotsauce)
真好食 Good to eat!
粵 Yuet (Cantonese)
腸粉 Cheung fan (rice sheet noodle)
菜譜 Recipes
詩 Poetry
雲吞 Won ton
香港 Hong Kong
魚翅 Shark fin
點心 Dim sum
Hope this helps.
Feedback and questions always welcome.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Some labels are LESS than usefull.
In that category:
Baffelyk
Bestiality
Bikinis
Pale blue panties
Panties
Penguins
If anything, they indicate the mood I was in when I wrote the posts more than anything else.
Oh, and also that I am inordinately fond of penguins.
Penguins are cool.
As, of course, are panties and bikinis. Our civilization would be much poorer without them.
Pale blue is good. Pale blue panties are too.
Most labels are fairly self-explanatory.
There are also a few labels which are in Chinese. Not quite so clear, wherefore I will elucidate a few.
中文 Chinese writing or literature
南乳 Red fermented tofu
唐人街 Chinatown (specifically, San Francisco C'town)
市德頓街 Stockton Street
春節 Spring Festival (Chinese Newyear)
滙豐 Huy Fong (Sriracha hotsauce)
真好食 Good to eat!
粵 Yuet (Cantonese)
腸粉 Cheung fan (rice sheet noodle)
菜譜 Recipes
詩 Poetry
雲吞 Won ton
香港 Hong Kong
魚翅 Shark fin
點心 Dim sum
Hope this helps.
Feedback and questions always welcome.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, May 02, 2011
BAT COUNTRY
Probably bad taste, but the only immediate effect of the death of Osama Bin Laden is that all of a sudden hundreds of thousands of American men have rediscovered testicles.
Truly a great victory.
Yay.
Even better, several million Pakistanis, Gazans, and Dutch people have rediscovered acid-indigestion. And personally that works much better for me. Judging by some of the stuff I've read on the internet today half of the Netherlands is dyspeptic.
I'd offer them candy in celebration, but they'd probably spit.
Many Dutch are mourning, in solidarity with their brothers in Hamas.
Others are frankly cynical (a talent of the Dutch).
And there is much to be cynical about.
I've would've liked the body to go on display, just to make a spectacle of the man and still the doubts. Perhaps we could've embalmed him, like Lenin or Mao.
At least show the body. Possibly at the next World's Fair.
Auctioned it off, maybe.
But the best thing would have been to dump him in a pickling jar and send him to Las Vegas.
"WE CAN'T STOP HERE, THIS IS BAT COUNTRY!"
As the immortal Johnny Depp would've said outside Barstow, if he spoke Dutch, "wij kunnen hier niet stoppen, dit is vledermuis-land!"
The desert does things to you, gringo.
I've only been to Las Vegas once.
As you may imagine, someone who works in finance views the Vegas scene with trepidation and despair. We tend to spend our money with greater sense and miserliness than is common there.
But we do indeed like the displays of cultural artifacts.......
Like that Italian hotel, and the pyramid, and the fabulous surf'n turf buffet.
So, a well-pickled Osama would add to the attraction. Provided he was dressed, of course. Nobody wants to see a naked elderly terrorist while eating surf'n turf. It detracts from the experience.
If you want to see anybody naked while dining on steak and lobster, it's probably Leslie Cheung, Cherie Chung, Andy Lau, or Maggie Cheung.
Or a reasonable proximile thereof, maybe Rima Fakih or George Clooney.
Rolled into one.
Perhaps even Haley Smith or Meg Griffin - both stellar hotties, unlike their dweebus brothers.
It all depends on your tastes, though. Whatever you wish to look at while eating dead moo-cow and sea-floor crustacean is your business.
But I'm fairly certain that elderly expired Arab is not it.
Personally, Irene Wan (温碧霞) is very high on my list - I especially remember her as the adorable wife of a eunuch in a movie I saw at the 大明星戲院 back in the late eighties. Yep, that's EXACTLY whom I want to scope out top to bottom while mouthing meat and sea-critter.
Yum.
I seem to have gotten off-tangent here.
Sorry.
It happens.
Blame Osama.
I guess a lot of people are doing that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Truly a great victory.
Yay.
Even better, several million Pakistanis, Gazans, and Dutch people have rediscovered acid-indigestion. And personally that works much better for me. Judging by some of the stuff I've read on the internet today half of the Netherlands is dyspeptic.
I'd offer them candy in celebration, but they'd probably spit.
Many Dutch are mourning, in solidarity with their brothers in Hamas.
Others are frankly cynical (a talent of the Dutch).
And there is much to be cynical about.
I've would've liked the body to go on display, just to make a spectacle of the man and still the doubts. Perhaps we could've embalmed him, like Lenin or Mao.
At least show the body. Possibly at the next World's Fair.
Auctioned it off, maybe.
But the best thing would have been to dump him in a pickling jar and send him to Las Vegas.
"WE CAN'T STOP HERE, THIS IS BAT COUNTRY!"
As the immortal Johnny Depp would've said outside Barstow, if he spoke Dutch, "wij kunnen hier niet stoppen, dit is vledermuis-land!"
The desert does things to you, gringo.
I've only been to Las Vegas once.
As you may imagine, someone who works in finance views the Vegas scene with trepidation and despair. We tend to spend our money with greater sense and miserliness than is common there.
But we do indeed like the displays of cultural artifacts.......
Like that Italian hotel, and the pyramid, and the fabulous surf'n turf buffet.
So, a well-pickled Osama would add to the attraction. Provided he was dressed, of course. Nobody wants to see a naked elderly terrorist while eating surf'n turf. It detracts from the experience.
If you want to see anybody naked while dining on steak and lobster, it's probably Leslie Cheung, Cherie Chung, Andy Lau, or Maggie Cheung.
Or a reasonable proximile thereof, maybe Rima Fakih or George Clooney.
Rolled into one.
Perhaps even Haley Smith or Meg Griffin - both stellar hotties, unlike their dweebus brothers.
It all depends on your tastes, though. Whatever you wish to look at while eating dead moo-cow and sea-floor crustacean is your business.
But I'm fairly certain that elderly expired Arab is not it.
Personally, Irene Wan (温碧霞) is very high on my list - I especially remember her as the adorable wife of a eunuch in a movie I saw at the 大明星戲院 back in the late eighties. Yep, that's EXACTLY whom I want to scope out top to bottom while mouthing meat and sea-critter.
Yum.
I seem to have gotten off-tangent here.
Sorry.
It happens.
Blame Osama.
I guess a lot of people are doing that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, April 30, 2011
THE GIRL WHO LIKED PEARS
Years ago I saw her at the local food store, scoping out the pears. She was very small, and looked to be in her early teens. As I reached past her to grab a few for myself, I casually said "you should buy some, they're very good".
Later I saw her at the other check-out stand with two pears of her own in a plastic vegetable bag. It was all she bought.
Occasionally over the next few months I would see her again, usually in the fruit and vegetable department.
She almost always bought pears.
I'm sure she also bought one or two other things, but the pears were a constant.
Once when I passed the bus shelter up the block I could see her sitting down, using both hands to eat a juicy pear.
Guiltily she looked up and noticed me.
I smiled, she smiled. Then she returned to her pear.
A few months later, at the store, I asked her what she liked so much about pears.
"They aren't apples!"
She said this as if it was a revealed truth, with awe in her voice.
She admitted that she had never eaten pears before I told her to buy some.
She was happy that I had encouraged her to take that chance.
We didn't talk much that time.
I would have liked to, but it just isn't a good idea for an adult man to have a long conversation with a teenager, as I assumed her to be.
Especially a pretty teenager.
Several weeks later I ran into her again. More pears. Sometimes you found a pear with a rotten spot inside, she informed me, so you really had to examine each pear carefully. She was serious about this. Pears were very important.
As an afterthought, she mentioned that she often took a pear to SF State in the morning.
Interesting - she looked like a thirteen or fourteen year old, small and slender, no overt curves. University already? So I asked her what she was studying.
Predictably, it was business administration, already in the third year.
Many Chinese-Americans who go to SF State study that, or accounting.
"But I'm also majoring in American Literature - Southern writers!"
She didn't look college-age, didn't particularly sound like it either.
But what do I know? Chinese women often look younger than they are.
Even when they are quite elderly they are often well-preserved, having far fewer wrinkles than the average white woman of the same years, whose face may look like a road map of the Sierras.
I wished her well in her studies, then went into another aisle to finish my shopping.
One time I asked her why all she seemed to purchase was a few pears. Turns out that for most things she went to Stockton Street on the other side of the hill, so many more vegetables, and better prices.
But hardly any pears. Pears she bought here. She loved pears.
I told her about a pear orchard that a friend's father owned in North-Brabant when I was still living there. In April the trees would bloom, delicate little five-petalled white blossoms with a faint fragrance. Singly they don't really make much of an impression on the nose, but thousands of them together, ah, that truly smells like spring! It was ever so pleasant to walk in the shade of the trees and look up, where the morning sunlight gave radiance to the massed white specks. The grass underneath would still be cold and wet, but the warming air would carry the essence down among the trunks. Brabant in spring is beautiful.
After a few weeks the petals would fall, swirling and eddying. The area under the trees would still be cool and shady, because all the leaves had come out.
"But what about the fruit? When do they grow fruit?"
' The fruit is clearly discernible by summer, and ripens by September. Though some fruit is still developing as late as October. No, they don't gather all the fruit, but let some of it simply fall to the ground.
Then they would let the old horse that they didn't have the heart to send to the knackers into the orchard, to graze among the tall grass and nibble pears. '
"How nice that they let the horse retire - it must have enjoyed it's old age!"
' Yes, I think it did. In winter it stayed in the stable, with a nice thick blanket over it to keep it warm. Old horses can get arthritic, you see. My friend and his sister would visit it every day to make sure it was comfortable, and they'd bring it some pears to eat. '
She was absolutely enchanted by the idea that, somewhere in Europe, there was an old grey horse, in the autumn of its years, being cared for and happily munching fruit. The next time she saw me she mentioned the horse. And the time after that.
She hoped it had plenty of pears to eat.
What I never told her was that the horse had been alive twenty years before, it had surely "gone to sleep" a long time past.
I just didn't have the heart to mention it.
The idea of an elderly horse contentedly wandering through a shady orchard is such a happy thought.
One evening, when I saw her at the store again, I mentioned that I would be going back to the Netherlands for a few weeks soon. She told me to make sure to visit the horse and feed it some pears.
I promised I would.
Didn't meet her again for several months.
Then one day in spring, when I got on the bus, she was in one of the seats near the back.
Turns out she had moved out of the area - her parents had finally bought a house, out in the avenues, so she seldom came to the neighborhood anymore. She would be graduating soon, but planned to keep living at home for a while. It was a nice house, and it had a yard.
Her dad had even promised to plant a pear tree for her. She was very much looking forward to that. Yes, she realized it might be a few years before it fruited, but it would be so lovely when it did.
And she would finally find out what pear blossoms smelled like!
I haven't seen her since then.
She still looked too small and slender to be an adult.
It's hard to imagine her all grown up and graduated.
She's almost certainly married by now, probably even has children.
I hope she's told them about the horse, and an orchard in autumn, and sweet ripe pears.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Later I saw her at the other check-out stand with two pears of her own in a plastic vegetable bag. It was all she bought.
Occasionally over the next few months I would see her again, usually in the fruit and vegetable department.
She almost always bought pears.
I'm sure she also bought one or two other things, but the pears were a constant.
Once when I passed the bus shelter up the block I could see her sitting down, using both hands to eat a juicy pear.
Guiltily she looked up and noticed me.
I smiled, she smiled. Then she returned to her pear.
A few months later, at the store, I asked her what she liked so much about pears.
"They aren't apples!"
She said this as if it was a revealed truth, with awe in her voice.
She admitted that she had never eaten pears before I told her to buy some.
She was happy that I had encouraged her to take that chance.
We didn't talk much that time.
I would have liked to, but it just isn't a good idea for an adult man to have a long conversation with a teenager, as I assumed her to be.
Especially a pretty teenager.
Several weeks later I ran into her again. More pears. Sometimes you found a pear with a rotten spot inside, she informed me, so you really had to examine each pear carefully. She was serious about this. Pears were very important.
As an afterthought, she mentioned that she often took a pear to SF State in the morning.
Interesting - she looked like a thirteen or fourteen year old, small and slender, no overt curves. University already? So I asked her what she was studying.
Predictably, it was business administration, already in the third year.
Many Chinese-Americans who go to SF State study that, or accounting.
"But I'm also majoring in American Literature - Southern writers!"
She didn't look college-age, didn't particularly sound like it either.
But what do I know? Chinese women often look younger than they are.
Even when they are quite elderly they are often well-preserved, having far fewer wrinkles than the average white woman of the same years, whose face may look like a road map of the Sierras.
I wished her well in her studies, then went into another aisle to finish my shopping.
One time I asked her why all she seemed to purchase was a few pears. Turns out that for most things she went to Stockton Street on the other side of the hill, so many more vegetables, and better prices.
But hardly any pears. Pears she bought here. She loved pears.
I told her about a pear orchard that a friend's father owned in North-Brabant when I was still living there. In April the trees would bloom, delicate little five-petalled white blossoms with a faint fragrance. Singly they don't really make much of an impression on the nose, but thousands of them together, ah, that truly smells like spring! It was ever so pleasant to walk in the shade of the trees and look up, where the morning sunlight gave radiance to the massed white specks. The grass underneath would still be cold and wet, but the warming air would carry the essence down among the trunks. Brabant in spring is beautiful.
After a few weeks the petals would fall, swirling and eddying. The area under the trees would still be cool and shady, because all the leaves had come out.
"But what about the fruit? When do they grow fruit?"
' The fruit is clearly discernible by summer, and ripens by September. Though some fruit is still developing as late as October. No, they don't gather all the fruit, but let some of it simply fall to the ground.
Then they would let the old horse that they didn't have the heart to send to the knackers into the orchard, to graze among the tall grass and nibble pears. '
"How nice that they let the horse retire - it must have enjoyed it's old age!"
' Yes, I think it did. In winter it stayed in the stable, with a nice thick blanket over it to keep it warm. Old horses can get arthritic, you see. My friend and his sister would visit it every day to make sure it was comfortable, and they'd bring it some pears to eat. '
She was absolutely enchanted by the idea that, somewhere in Europe, there was an old grey horse, in the autumn of its years, being cared for and happily munching fruit. The next time she saw me she mentioned the horse. And the time after that.
She hoped it had plenty of pears to eat.
What I never told her was that the horse had been alive twenty years before, it had surely "gone to sleep" a long time past.
I just didn't have the heart to mention it.
The idea of an elderly horse contentedly wandering through a shady orchard is such a happy thought.
One evening, when I saw her at the store again, I mentioned that I would be going back to the Netherlands for a few weeks soon. She told me to make sure to visit the horse and feed it some pears.
I promised I would.
Didn't meet her again for several months.
Then one day in spring, when I got on the bus, she was in one of the seats near the back.
Turns out she had moved out of the area - her parents had finally bought a house, out in the avenues, so she seldom came to the neighborhood anymore. She would be graduating soon, but planned to keep living at home for a while. It was a nice house, and it had a yard.
Her dad had even promised to plant a pear tree for her. She was very much looking forward to that. Yes, she realized it might be a few years before it fruited, but it would be so lovely when it did.
And she would finally find out what pear blossoms smelled like!
I haven't seen her since then.
She still looked too small and slender to be an adult.
It's hard to imagine her all grown up and graduated.
She's almost certainly married by now, probably even has children.
I hope she's told them about the horse, and an orchard in autumn, and sweet ripe pears.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, April 29, 2011
THE MIRACLE OF FIRST WORLD DENTISTRY
I am always the last to know. It seems like while I was sleeping – meaning that for the past few months I have been assiduously reading the news, with an emphasis on politics, discord, disasters, and financial markets – two celebrities unknown to me got hitched.
Well slap my face and call me spinach. No idea.
I wasn't paying attention.
British celebrities, at that.
Mazzel tov, you two.
To quote from a completely random dude in the elevator this morning, “they can’t be English, they’ve got good teeth!”
Apparently teeth figure prominently in British marriages. I didn’t know.
I suppose teeth are rather important – when you’re fumbling simultaneously with the clasps on a brassiere and your own confusing princely undergarments, plus tweeds, slippers, and a terrier, teeth are like a third hand.
And you may also need them later, when you have to open a small packet while holding on to a skittish other person. Or waxing yourself. Or telling the terrier to let go of the slippers. Scoot, little dog, scoot. Grrrr.
Plus teeth are good for nibbling cute little parts of the other person.
Or persons, plural – but only two people are involved in this, right?
Just checking. You never know. Foreign sex and whatnot.
Oh, and eating. I believe newly-weds eat. Even royals.
Certainly she will – she probably starved herself horribly to get into that dress. Women do that – that much of popular culture I’m aware of.
Self torture for an absurd cause.
Say yes to the tiny tight dress.
Masochism - it's the fundament of weddings.
Along with sadism, but that's something for the list of invitees.
So she’s ravenous. Girl wants some bacon! Hasn’t had any for months.
Three crisp greasy rashers, at least.
“They can’t be English, they’ve got good teeth!”
If she’s typically British, she may want to shove the bacon strips in a blender. Saves time – gumming bacon is fun, but it takes so much longer to render it swallowable. And you must at least partially reduce it to a digestible state, otherwise the sudden influx of rich porky fat in still semi-solid form will shock the stomach lining, and prompt the release of large amounts of stomach fluids.
Which leads to acid indigestion, reflux, cramps. And, most notably, bad breath.
Nothing worse than trying to kiss someone with burning gut fumes coming out of their mouths.
If they were spiders, it would be quite natural to avoid the orifice of the other person (mandibles), because spiders dissolve the chunky parts of their food with a spew of digestive liquids right into the wound. Of course, they also eat their mates – not sure if English women do that, I have heard that they instead keep them alive to torture at leisure.
I’m guessing part of that involves breathing at them.
Probably raises blisters and makes the eyes water.
Might even strip paint.
Face-peeling breath, resulting from indigestion, reflux, and cramps.
Horrible discomfort, coupled with bad temper.
These unpleasant things are probably endemic in Britain, largely due to the wealth of indigestible substances in their "cuisine".
And that’s precisely why you could really use some teeth.
It isn’t just British sex which requires chompers, but British food.
Over here in the colonies, we don’t really need teeth.
We eat far better, and our sexual habits are different.
Our teeth are a luxury that we can wallow in.
Maybe the happy couple are secretly Yanks?
It would explain a lot.
Anyway, mazzel tov, you two!
Now, go off and have as much happy sex as you possibly can.
Before your teeth fall out.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Well slap my face and call me spinach. No idea.
I wasn't paying attention.
British celebrities, at that.
Mazzel tov, you two.
To quote from a completely random dude in the elevator this morning, “they can’t be English, they’ve got good teeth!”
Apparently teeth figure prominently in British marriages. I didn’t know.
I suppose teeth are rather important – when you’re fumbling simultaneously with the clasps on a brassiere and your own confusing princely undergarments, plus tweeds, slippers, and a terrier, teeth are like a third hand.
And you may also need them later, when you have to open a small packet while holding on to a skittish other person. Or waxing yourself. Or telling the terrier to let go of the slippers. Scoot, little dog, scoot. Grrrr.
Plus teeth are good for nibbling cute little parts of the other person.
Or persons, plural – but only two people are involved in this, right?
Just checking. You never know. Foreign sex and whatnot.
Oh, and eating. I believe newly-weds eat. Even royals.
Certainly she will – she probably starved herself horribly to get into that dress. Women do that – that much of popular culture I’m aware of.
Self torture for an absurd cause.
Say yes to the tiny tight dress.
Masochism - it's the fundament of weddings.
Along with sadism, but that's something for the list of invitees.
So she’s ravenous. Girl wants some bacon! Hasn’t had any for months.
Three crisp greasy rashers, at least.
“They can’t be English, they’ve got good teeth!”
If she’s typically British, she may want to shove the bacon strips in a blender. Saves time – gumming bacon is fun, but it takes so much longer to render it swallowable. And you must at least partially reduce it to a digestible state, otherwise the sudden influx of rich porky fat in still semi-solid form will shock the stomach lining, and prompt the release of large amounts of stomach fluids.
Which leads to acid indigestion, reflux, cramps. And, most notably, bad breath.
Nothing worse than trying to kiss someone with burning gut fumes coming out of their mouths.
If they were spiders, it would be quite natural to avoid the orifice of the other person (mandibles), because spiders dissolve the chunky parts of their food with a spew of digestive liquids right into the wound. Of course, they also eat their mates – not sure if English women do that, I have heard that they instead keep them alive to torture at leisure.
I’m guessing part of that involves breathing at them.
Probably raises blisters and makes the eyes water.
Might even strip paint.
Face-peeling breath, resulting from indigestion, reflux, and cramps.
Horrible discomfort, coupled with bad temper.
These unpleasant things are probably endemic in Britain, largely due to the wealth of indigestible substances in their "cuisine".
And that’s precisely why you could really use some teeth.
It isn’t just British sex which requires chompers, but British food.
Over here in the colonies, we don’t really need teeth.
We eat far better, and our sexual habits are different.
Our teeth are a luxury that we can wallow in.
Maybe the happy couple are secretly Yanks?
It would explain a lot.
Anyway, mazzel tov, you two!
Now, go off and have as much happy sex as you possibly can.
Before your teeth fall out.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, April 28, 2011
DUTCH CULTURE
Readers have on occasion chided this blogger for not being Dutch enough.
Having lived in the Netherlands for nearly two decades while young, they feel I should have more sympathy for the Dutch, their lovely country, the food, the art, the history, the glorious culture.
And also the sprightly music.
Yes, the music.
As may be appreciated in this video clip.
SPEAKING FLUENT DUTCH WITHOUT EVEN REALLY TRYING, REALLY, THERE'S NOTHING TO IT, AND PLEASE NOTE THAT NO-ONE IS ACTUALLY HACKING UP A GIANT HAIRBALL, HONEST, I KID YOU NOT!
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_JinJ7NY5_E.]
The sprightly music occurs at regular intervals during the show. It is performed by the world-famous "Nederlander Foot Choir".
Great stuff.
Meaty!
"Ond spesifikat, vus künder miet?"
Please note the "disastür zün Rhine". Your generous contribution to relief efforts will be thoroughly appreciated.
And now, ni pudük poi Feelyat!
Swievü, swievü, swievü!
Any resemblance to the Swedish Chef is purely coincidental. Dutch and Swedish are both beautiful and unique languages, which though equally melodic are actually vastly different.
Man, I just love a good foot choir.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Having lived in the Netherlands for nearly two decades while young, they feel I should have more sympathy for the Dutch, their lovely country, the food, the art, the history, the glorious culture.
And also the sprightly music.
Yes, the music.
As may be appreciated in this video clip.
SPEAKING FLUENT DUTCH WITHOUT EVEN REALLY TRYING, REALLY, THERE'S NOTHING TO IT, AND PLEASE NOTE THAT NO-ONE IS ACTUALLY HACKING UP A GIANT HAIRBALL, HONEST, I KID YOU NOT!
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_JinJ7NY5_E.]
The sprightly music occurs at regular intervals during the show. It is performed by the world-famous "Nederlander Foot Choir".
Great stuff.
Meaty!
"Ond spesifikat, vus künder miet?"
Please note the "disastür zün Rhine". Your generous contribution to relief efforts will be thoroughly appreciated.
And now, ni pudük poi Feelyat!
Swievü, swievü, swievü!
Any resemblance to the Swedish Chef is purely coincidental. Dutch and Swedish are both beautiful and unique languages, which though equally melodic are actually vastly different.
Man, I just love a good foot choir.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
STEPHEN CHOW (CHOW SING-CHI): DIPLOMAT, TELEVISION HOST, AND ALL-ROUND DECENT CHAP
One of the Hong Kong movie stars of whom many kwailo have heard is Stephen Chow (周星馳), star of such films as 龍在天涯 (lung tzoi tien-ya), 義膽群英 (yi daan kwan ying), 龍鳳茶樓 (lung fung chaa lou), and most especially, 賭聖 (dou seng), in which he was unforgettable as Sing, the simple country boy with a profound gift for cheating at cards.
This last movie propelled him to stardom - he has delighted fans of 無厘頭 (mo lei tau) ever since on both sides of the Pacific.
Truly a genius.
You doubt?
Please scope out the video below.
STEPHEN CHOW PRAISES
INTERVIEWER'S MANTAI!
當外國人嘲笑中國人不懂英文之後星爺發火了
Dang ngoikwok yan chausiu chungkwok yan m-tong yingman ji-hau Sing yeh faatfoh-le ("regarding outside country persons sneering at central country persons not understanding hero literature afterwards star lord catches fire").
[Takes time to load - be patient.]
And he does right to catch fire. I would have too.
Sometimes, ngoi kwok yan dei can be real hufters.
Especially when they presume that hero literature is far better than broad prefecture speech. On occasion it isn't. At times it sorely lacks .
MO LEI TAU 無厘頭
Unfounded, without a clear cause. Neither head nor tail. Both a philosophy of life, and a code of conduct.
It is by the juxtapositioning of seemingly random themes and data that a wider comprehension can be achieved.
In the works of Chow Sing-Chi, a predominant concept is the distinction between figure and imagined element.
If neotextual objectivism dominates the subcultural paradigm, narrative is intrinsically dead. Hence a totality of mythopoetical stasis is constructed, then analyzed in terms of language that serves to illuminate the dialectic paradox.
Themes significantly absent from his films are angst, anomie, and introspection.
There is naught existential, it is all consciously deconstructivist.
If you do not understand any of that, good. That is precisely the point.
Mo lei tau. Post-modern humour.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This last movie propelled him to stardom - he has delighted fans of 無厘頭 (mo lei tau) ever since on both sides of the Pacific.
Truly a genius.
You doubt?
Please scope out the video below.
STEPHEN CHOW PRAISES
INTERVIEWER'S MANTAI!
當外國人嘲笑中國人不懂英文之後星爺發火了
Dang ngoikwok yan chausiu chungkwok yan m-tong yingman ji-hau Sing yeh faatfoh-le ("regarding outside country persons sneering at central country persons not understanding hero literature afterwards star lord catches fire").
[Takes time to load - be patient.]
And he does right to catch fire. I would have too.
Sometimes, ngoi kwok yan dei can be real hufters.
Especially when they presume that hero literature is far better than broad prefecture speech. On occasion it isn't. At times it sorely lacks .
MO LEI TAU 無厘頭
Unfounded, without a clear cause. Neither head nor tail. Both a philosophy of life, and a code of conduct.
It is by the juxtapositioning of seemingly random themes and data that a wider comprehension can be achieved.
In the works of Chow Sing-Chi, a predominant concept is the distinction between figure and imagined element.
If neotextual objectivism dominates the subcultural paradigm, narrative is intrinsically dead. Hence a totality of mythopoetical stasis is constructed, then analyzed in terms of language that serves to illuminate the dialectic paradox.
Themes significantly absent from his films are angst, anomie, and introspection.
There is naught existential, it is all consciously deconstructivist.
If you do not understand any of that, good. That is precisely the point.
Mo lei tau. Post-modern humour.
==========================================================================
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,...
