A while back I lightheartedly gave my own views on my hierarchy of needs.
This past weekend I have thought about precisely that subject, and consequently have a much better idea of what is truly essential to make my life vastly better.
Riotously enjoyable, in fact.
FIVE NEEDS
1. A multi-million dollar winning lottery ticket.
2. A girlfriend.
3. Another Comoy’s Blue Riband.
4. A stupendous ‘super-burrito’.
5. World peace.
Now, people who know me will no doubt ask about the last three items. Somehow, they don’t seem that important...... surely there has been some mistake?
Do those things really rank in any hierarchy?
I assure you that the Comoy’s Blue Riband is ESSENTIAL.
I already have twelve of them, one of which has never been smoked. Comoy in London made exceptionally nice pipes, and really had an eye for the classic shape. Not even Dunhill made better pipes than the Blue Riband series, though Dunhill sneeringly referred to other pipe factories as “that damned Jew” (Charatan), “that bunch of smelly Wops” (Sasieni), “the drunken Irish bastards” (Kapp & Peterson), or, in the case of Comoy and Chapuis-Comoy, “those stinking unwashed frogs”.
Dunhill, you probably understand, was the archetype of lower middle class mercenary snob, obsequiously greasing the posteriors of the ruling classes.
Comoy, on the other hand...... Damned fine pipes! Especially the Blue Riband. During the early eighties, Comoy made about twenty of them, after a hiatus of nearly a decade when wood of that quality was not found.
Eight were made available to the North American market.
The stupendous burrito (con carnitas y salsa picante, sin frijoles por favor) has already been taken care of.
It was delicious!
World Peace is just not likely, but I’m high-minded so I had to include it.
The winning lottery ticket would be very nice, and would take care of both item no. three (the Blue Riband) and a repeat of item no. four (the burrito).
The girlfriend is definitely a ‘need’. I know that Tzipporah (regular reader of this blog) insists that what I really truly need in lieu of such a thing is a cat, but never the less I think I would vastly prefer the girlfriend.
Albeit with some catlike characteristics.
Playfulness, perhaps. And the ability to enjoy dozing next to me all afternoon, purring happily.
A creature with a zest for food, petting, and nuzzling.
Happy kittens add so much to life.
One the whole, I think this list is achievable, realistic even.
Well, except for world peace, that is.
That's a pipe-dream.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 16, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
THE ABILITY TO MOVE ON
The food was good, but I daydreamed throughout the meal. There was new year's festival music on the speaker system in the restaurant, and I could not help but remember when.....
Actually, I’ve been in a mijmering-mood all weekend. Remembering people who used to be important in my life, and though they no longer live, still are important.
My mother, who passed away in 1977. My grandmother, 1981. My father, 1990. My brother, and my father's second wife, 1993.
I miss them all. And I'm grateful that I knew them.
Of course, I also miss our cats.
Baines, a big fluffy tomcat who loved music. When my brother played an instrument, Baines would come from the bottom of the garden running all the way up to the house.
Dorothy, who was adventurous and very affectionate.
Her daughter Narnia figured out how to open and close doors - we didn't discover this till one day she brought her babies inside. A brilliant and creative puss indeed.
Narnia's grandkittens, however, were goofy. Quite likely the feline genetic stock in that part of the world was getting exhausted.
FELINE DREAMS
This morning I reread both volumes of a manga about a cat who several years after her death comes back as the twin-sister of her human, who is now in the last year and a half of high school. The cat looks in every way like a sibling....... except that she still has cat ears.
Oh, and big breasts, unlike her flat-chested sister. Gotta keep the teenage boy-audience entertained, even though it is a manga meant for girls.
There is no fan-service. No revealing nudity, no gratuitous views of panties or cleavage. No sexual innuendo. The one male high-school student who crops up in the lives of the two girls is clearly a geek, and NOT a love interest.
The story line, told through sometimes baffling four-panel strips, is aimed clearly at females.
The ending is extremely touching.
It brought tears to my eyes.
I admit to being a softie.
Actually, their home-room teacher is the most intriguing part of the tale. She's a dysfunctional gambling addict, whose teaching-subject is world history. But she is not above using her students grades as suggestions for lottery tickets, and when one of her colleagues invites her for cherry-blossom viewing, she arm-twists him to go to the race track instead. At one point she encourages cheating on tests to make it more likely that she'll win a bet. Her view of ethics is that as no bribes were involved, and there is plausible deniability, her hands are clean.
The twin-sister who is a cat is, unfortunately, not the best student in class by a wide margin.
It is her problem with tests which highlights the teacher's moral failings.
As I said, the end is touching. It is a fitting and happy conclusion to the tale, but it results in the other characters' memories of the cat-girl's previous two years among them being erased, and her friendship with them having to start anew.
The cat-sister does not remember either.
But the human sister cannot forget.
Memories bring sadness. Memories also give one pleasure.
Memories create a sense of belonging, of stability.
Without memory, nothing is new.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Actually, I’ve been in a mijmering-mood all weekend. Remembering people who used to be important in my life, and though they no longer live, still are important.
My mother, who passed away in 1977. My grandmother, 1981. My father, 1990. My brother, and my father's second wife, 1993.
I miss them all. And I'm grateful that I knew them.
Of course, I also miss our cats.
Baines, a big fluffy tomcat who loved music. When my brother played an instrument, Baines would come from the bottom of the garden running all the way up to the house.
Dorothy, who was adventurous and very affectionate.
Her daughter Narnia figured out how to open and close doors - we didn't discover this till one day she brought her babies inside. A brilliant and creative puss indeed.
Narnia's grandkittens, however, were goofy. Quite likely the feline genetic stock in that part of the world was getting exhausted.
FELINE DREAMS
This morning I reread both volumes of a manga about a cat who several years after her death comes back as the twin-sister of her human, who is now in the last year and a half of high school. The cat looks in every way like a sibling....... except that she still has cat ears.
Oh, and big breasts, unlike her flat-chested sister. Gotta keep the teenage boy-audience entertained, even though it is a manga meant for girls.
There is no fan-service. No revealing nudity, no gratuitous views of panties or cleavage. No sexual innuendo. The one male high-school student who crops up in the lives of the two girls is clearly a geek, and NOT a love interest.
The story line, told through sometimes baffling four-panel strips, is aimed clearly at females.
The ending is extremely touching.
It brought tears to my eyes.
I admit to being a softie.
Actually, their home-room teacher is the most intriguing part of the tale. She's a dysfunctional gambling addict, whose teaching-subject is world history. But she is not above using her students grades as suggestions for lottery tickets, and when one of her colleagues invites her for cherry-blossom viewing, she arm-twists him to go to the race track instead. At one point she encourages cheating on tests to make it more likely that she'll win a bet. Her view of ethics is that as no bribes were involved, and there is plausible deniability, her hands are clean.
The twin-sister who is a cat is, unfortunately, not the best student in class by a wide margin.
It is her problem with tests which highlights the teacher's moral failings.
As I said, the end is touching. It is a fitting and happy conclusion to the tale, but it results in the other characters' memories of the cat-girl's previous two years among them being erased, and her friendship with them having to start anew.
The cat-sister does not remember either.
But the human sister cannot forget.
Memories bring sadness. Memories also give one pleasure.
Memories create a sense of belonging, of stability.
Without memory, nothing is new.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, January 14, 2012
ALABAMA SONG
One of the first songs I learned at my mother's knee was NOT, as you may have thought, The Winnipeg Whore, or The Harlot of Jerusalem ('kafoozalem'). Close, but no stogey.
Not even The Ring Dang Doo, Cocaine Joe And Heroin Sue, or The Foggy Foggy Dew.
OH MOON OF ALABAMA...
The song was written not by Bertolt Brecht, as commonly believed, but by Brecht's friend and collaborator Elisabeth Hauptman while they were working together in 1925.
It was set to music by balding odd-looking musical genius Kurt Weill in 1927.
Probably known best as sung by Lotte Lenya in The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny ('Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt Mahagonny'), though since then it has been covered by numerous artists.
One of the better know versions is sung by Jim Morrison of the doors.
"Oh show us, the way, to the next whiskey bar..... oh don't ask why, oh don't ask why. Show me the way to the next whiskey bar, oh don't ask why, oh don't ask why.
For if we don't find the next whiskey bar, I tell you we must die, I tell you we must die, I tell ya, I tell ya, I tell you we must die!"
THE WHISKEY BOWL
A remarkably sane and clean looking Morrison sings the song at the Hollywood Bowl in 1968.
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_d_VJbYAfc.]
Obviously, that wasn't the version I first heard. What was on the victrola during my childhood was the Kurt Weill - Berthold Brecht - Lotte Lenya version. It was..... disturbingly sinful and sleazy. I didn't know why, but it disquieted me. Perhaps the note of hopelessness and forlorn searching for just another depravity underlying the text made me feel that way, perhaps the angstigkeit of Lotte's voice.
It wasn't till I saw a performance of Mahagony at the Stadsschouwburg in Eindhoven that the song really clicked. Heck, the entire opera clicked, big time!
When the ramshackle vehicle with the widow Begbick and her two desperate cohorts tootles onto the stage and promptly craps-out, life really starts.
SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE OFFICE
As I type this, it is 8:20 PM on a Saturday evening. In another few minutes I shall load up my pipe and head out to the only bar in San Francisco where one may smoke. It is around the corner from the office. There will be whiskey there.
And, karmicly-speaking, the widow Begbick too.
But it will be the harlot Jenny Smith whose voice will echo in my ear, singing the Alabama Song, searching for liquor, loot, and pretty boys.
I'll put up with the cheap cigar smoke from the Alaskan miners.
Small price to pay for a daydream.
NOTE: One of my father's favourite songs, which I also liked, was Surabaya Johnny.
"Ich war jung, gott, erst sechzehn Jahre, du kamest von Birma herauf....."
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Not even The Ring Dang Doo, Cocaine Joe And Heroin Sue, or The Foggy Foggy Dew.
OH MOON OF ALABAMA...
The song was written not by Bertolt Brecht, as commonly believed, but by Brecht's friend and collaborator Elisabeth Hauptman while they were working together in 1925.
It was set to music by balding odd-looking musical genius Kurt Weill in 1927.
Probably known best as sung by Lotte Lenya in The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny ('Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt Mahagonny'), though since then it has been covered by numerous artists.
One of the better know versions is sung by Jim Morrison of the doors.
"Oh show us, the way, to the next whiskey bar..... oh don't ask why, oh don't ask why. Show me the way to the next whiskey bar, oh don't ask why, oh don't ask why.
For if we don't find the next whiskey bar, I tell you we must die, I tell you we must die, I tell ya, I tell ya, I tell you we must die!"
THE WHISKEY BOWL
A remarkably sane and clean looking Morrison sings the song at the Hollywood Bowl in 1968.
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_d_VJbYAfc.]
Obviously, that wasn't the version I first heard. What was on the victrola during my childhood was the Kurt Weill - Berthold Brecht - Lotte Lenya version. It was..... disturbingly sinful and sleazy. I didn't know why, but it disquieted me. Perhaps the note of hopelessness and forlorn searching for just another depravity underlying the text made me feel that way, perhaps the angstigkeit of Lotte's voice.
It wasn't till I saw a performance of Mahagony at the Stadsschouwburg in Eindhoven that the song really clicked. Heck, the entire opera clicked, big time!
When the ramshackle vehicle with the widow Begbick and her two desperate cohorts tootles onto the stage and promptly craps-out, life really starts.
SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE OFFICE
As I type this, it is 8:20 PM on a Saturday evening. In another few minutes I shall load up my pipe and head out to the only bar in San Francisco where one may smoke. It is around the corner from the office. There will be whiskey there.
And, karmicly-speaking, the widow Begbick too.
But it will be the harlot Jenny Smith whose voice will echo in my ear, singing the Alabama Song, searching for liquor, loot, and pretty boys.
I'll put up with the cheap cigar smoke from the Alaskan miners.
Small price to pay for a daydream.
NOTE: One of my father's favourite songs, which I also liked, was Surabaya Johnny.
"Ich war jung, gott, erst sechzehn Jahre, du kamest von Birma herauf....."
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, January 13, 2012
LOVE OTTERS
I read today that the surviving Vancouver zoo otter made famous by the youtube clip had passed away.
Milo died Wednesday January 11 of lymphoma, three years after his mate Nyac succumbed to lymphocytic leukemia.
Both Vancouver and Youtube are in mourning.
Of course you remember the clip - it was circulated around the world.
HANDHOLDING OTTERS
Milo and Nyac.
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epUk3T2Kfno.]
Otters are personable animals, and despite some crazy behaviour it is hard to believe that they are not human, as the following clip demonstrates.
DANCING OTTERS
A chorus line.
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WmaJmpfQURU.]
If that doesn't remind you of your relatives......
The next two clips, however, show that otter behaviour takes some charmingly rambunctious forms.
If you are a prude, or severely disapprove of little furry heretics having more fun than you, you should probably not watch either clip.
MOIST LOVE
Safe for work. Two otters that live at Lisbon's Oceanarium float around making out.
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GSDnp57LZ3o&feature=related.]
HAPPY OTTER SEX
If these were your neighbors, they'd keep you up all night with their passionate love-making.
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3N2DIj4vVNA.]
Yes, technically that last clip is pornography.
Hard core silken-furred wriggling sex; rampant, passionate, lively.
Heavens, how those two enthusiastically get their fur on!
It's the kind of videographic naughtiness that leaves you envious of creatures covered with soft dark pelts.
Just admit it. In your next life, you want to come back as an otter.
Perhaps not for the boisterous sex, but definitely for the charm.
Oh heck, ALSO for the boisterous sex.
Such happy connubulating.
And zesty tails!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Milo died Wednesday January 11 of lymphoma, three years after his mate Nyac succumbed to lymphocytic leukemia.
Both Vancouver and Youtube are in mourning.
Of course you remember the clip - it was circulated around the world.
HANDHOLDING OTTERS
Milo and Nyac.
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epUk3T2Kfno.]
Otters are personable animals, and despite some crazy behaviour it is hard to believe that they are not human, as the following clip demonstrates.
DANCING OTTERS
A chorus line.
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WmaJmpfQURU.]
If that doesn't remind you of your relatives......
The next two clips, however, show that otter behaviour takes some charmingly rambunctious forms.
If you are a prude, or severely disapprove of little furry heretics having more fun than you, you should probably not watch either clip.
MOIST LOVE
Safe for work. Two otters that live at Lisbon's Oceanarium float around making out.
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GSDnp57LZ3o&feature=related.]
HAPPY OTTER SEX
If these were your neighbors, they'd keep you up all night with their passionate love-making.
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3N2DIj4vVNA.]
Yes, technically that last clip is pornography.
Hard core silken-furred wriggling sex; rampant, passionate, lively.
Heavens, how those two enthusiastically get their fur on!
It's the kind of videographic naughtiness that leaves you envious of creatures covered with soft dark pelts.
Just admit it. In your next life, you want to come back as an otter.
Perhaps not for the boisterous sex, but definitely for the charm.
Oh heck, ALSO for the boisterous sex.
Such happy connubulating.
And zesty tails!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
ADVICE FOR ROMANTICS
Further to what he calls my 'dating crisis', one of my readers has kindly forwarded "an advice column".
In fact there is no crisis. Because there is no dating.
If there were dating, there might be a crisis.
My life at present is frustratingly crisis-free.
Anyhow, he states that I could do worse than to imitate a male pisauridian, conveniently overlooking the disturbing dietary preferences of the female.
A WORTHWHILE EXAMPLE
QUOTE:
"Researcher Maria Jose Albo of Denmark's Aarhus University told Live Science in November that the spiders typically obtain sex by making valuable "gifts" to females (usually, high-nutrition insects wrapped in silk), but if lacking resources, a male cleverly packages a fake gift (usually a piece of flower) also in silk but confoundingly wound so as to distract her as she unwraps it -- and then mounts her before she discovers the hoax. Albo also found that the male is not above playing dead to coax the female into relaxing her guard as she approaches the "carcass" -- only to be jumped from behind for sex. "
END QUOTE.
[Source: http://news.yahoo.com/news-weird-100002251.html.]
His suggestion is that I can learn from this.
I hate to tell him, but I am not a spider, and none of the women I would ever be interested in desires "high-nutrition insects wrapped in silk".
It does sound charming, though. I mean the silk-wrapping.....
Humans are also interested in gift-wrap.
On the other hand, playing dead to coax the female into relaxing her guard and approaching, while sly, seems more than a little off kilter.
A ravenous carrion-eating female should probably not be trifled with.
Perspectives may change after the zombie-apocalypse.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In fact there is no crisis. Because there is no dating.
If there were dating, there might be a crisis.
My life at present is frustratingly crisis-free.
Anyhow, he states that I could do worse than to imitate a male pisauridian, conveniently overlooking the disturbing dietary preferences of the female.
A WORTHWHILE EXAMPLE
QUOTE:
"Researcher Maria Jose Albo of Denmark's Aarhus University told Live Science in November that the spiders typically obtain sex by making valuable "gifts" to females (usually, high-nutrition insects wrapped in silk), but if lacking resources, a male cleverly packages a fake gift (usually a piece of flower) also in silk but confoundingly wound so as to distract her as she unwraps it -- and then mounts her before she discovers the hoax. Albo also found that the male is not above playing dead to coax the female into relaxing her guard as she approaches the "carcass" -- only to be jumped from behind for sex. "
END QUOTE.
[Source: http://news.yahoo.com/news-weird-100002251.html.]
His suggestion is that I can learn from this.
I hate to tell him, but I am not a spider, and none of the women I would ever be interested in desires "high-nutrition insects wrapped in silk".
It does sound charming, though. I mean the silk-wrapping.....
Humans are also interested in gift-wrap.
On the other hand, playing dead to coax the female into relaxing her guard and approaching, while sly, seems more than a little off kilter.
A ravenous carrion-eating female should probably not be trifled with.
Perspectives may change after the zombie-apocalypse.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, January 12, 2012
SERIOUSLY THINKING ABOUT DATING A PERSON OF THE OPPOSITE GENDER
A friend asked, pursuant my recent vitriolic comments about the female of the species, whether I was indeed determined to avoid seeing women in this new year.
To which the answer naturally is "of course not".
Should some young lady whom I would like to know come across my path, dating could be a mighty good thing.
It IS a possibility. Don't laugh.
The problem of course is getting to that point, and explaining myself.
Suppose, for instance, that her father asks me what my plans are with his precious little girl.
Yes, I know, that's a very old-fashioned idea. Most parents nowadays have absolutely no influence over their grown children's thoroughly rotten decisions, and most youthful adults consider their parents dreadful busy-bodies who only exist to bankroll the extravagances of their offspring.
Never the less, imagining this stage is a useful exercise, because it prepares one for actually communicating one's motives, as well as clarifying what one expects.
It isn't entirely unrealistic either, as many women do have parents or other concerned relatives.
[Dating orphans is probably out of the question, since I'm no longer allowed anywhere near Madame Fetiche's Home for Christian Damsels in Upper Whipping-Birch. Something about little miss Sachet returning to the dorm somewhat the worse for wear.]
So, let's say I've rung the doorbell, and while young Mathilda is putting on her best frock and pearls upstairs, her old man has handed me a glass of sherry and a cigar.
We're in the parlour, and the question is sternly posed:
"Young man, what precisely are your intentions towards my daughter?"
What on earth do I say?
"I plan to wine her, dine her, and ravish her fine young body."
No. Obviously this is a bad answer.
For one thing, many modern girls can outdrink this blogger by a fare-thee-well, and I would fear for my life should I even attempt this. Might wake up in an ice-cube filled bath tub with one of my kidneys missing.
Daddy's little girl can hold her own.
"We're going out to the drive-in, where I shall grope her in the back seat, sir."
Equally bad. Quality young ladies do NOT go to drive-in movie theaters on foot (necessitated because I do not own a car). Come to think of it, there are no drive-ins in San Francisco, so even the idea of renting a 1960's station wagon for this experiment is absurd.
"Strictly honourable, sir. Any crazy shit is up to her."
That right there shows the insanity of dating. Best behaviour and tension meet the unrealistic expectations of both parties head-on, and the terrifying results make for a zany and entertaining romantic movie comedy, but bad real life drama.
Woody Allen has already covered that territory, and it was very painful.
More reassuring answers involving reading scripture together, taking in a school play, or visiting the sick are also out of the question. Not because they're unbelievable, but because I could not possibly keep my face straight while delivering them.
WHAT DO PEOPLE DO ON DATES?
I actually haven't been on a date in over twenty years. So at this point, I haven't a clue what goes on during such things nowadays.
Back then, it always seemed so fraught, and many women relied on the man to guess EXACTLY what they wanted to do.
That still may be the case.
Left to my own devices I would suggest that we do something like go out to eat at a quiet place, enjoy good food together, then have a walk around Nob Hill and Russian Hill.
There are marvelous views there, and several lovely streets.
In particular I like the stretch of Hyde between Jackson and Vallejo, because of the trees lining it on both sides, and the friendly glow from the various eateries. Clay between Jones and Leavenworth has golden leaved Gingko trees at present, that too is very nice.
If it's still early in the evening, we could then go to the Russian Hill Bookstore and browse.
Either that, or possibly first head out to a coffee shop, then to the Asian Art Museum. There's a lovely bronze container in the shape of a rotund rhinoceros in the collection that always brings a smile to the face of whoever sees it, and a number of other fine items including some paintings by Sung masters.
After which, perhaps some dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant and a leisurely stroll home.
Unfortunately, such things do not appeal to many women.
That, by itself, tells me that dating is unlikely, as is actually finding someone worth seeing.
In this era, of course, dating involves far more alcohol and loud music.
I should also mention that when I still dated, the event left me feeling both nauseous and tense.
A date is the perfect way to establish that there is far too little in common for any further friendship, and that it was really unrealistic and ridiculous to even consider closer bonds.
I would consequently be quite surprised if there were any woman out there whose ideas in any way matched mine.
Not discounting the possibility entirely, you understand, but not planning any unrealistic adventures either.
By the way: If any of my readers have interesting ideas about what to do on dates, please feel free to leave a comment.
I'm always up for painful stomach cramps and hysterical laughter.
Thank you.
POST SCRIPTUM
So what exactly did I do to poor little miss Sachet? Simple.
I fed her the finest English food available in Upper Whipping-Birch at that time.
Made the thin little thing clean her plate, too. She looked rather underweight.
How was I to know that British cuisine was a bio-hazard?
Probably should have gone to an Indian restaurant instead, but back in the stone age proper young ladies were never seen in such places.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
To which the answer naturally is "of course not".
Should some young lady whom I would like to know come across my path, dating could be a mighty good thing.
It IS a possibility. Don't laugh.
The problem of course is getting to that point, and explaining myself.
Suppose, for instance, that her father asks me what my plans are with his precious little girl.
Yes, I know, that's a very old-fashioned idea. Most parents nowadays have absolutely no influence over their grown children's thoroughly rotten decisions, and most youthful adults consider their parents dreadful busy-bodies who only exist to bankroll the extravagances of their offspring.
Never the less, imagining this stage is a useful exercise, because it prepares one for actually communicating one's motives, as well as clarifying what one expects.
It isn't entirely unrealistic either, as many women do have parents or other concerned relatives.
[Dating orphans is probably out of the question, since I'm no longer allowed anywhere near Madame Fetiche's Home for Christian Damsels in Upper Whipping-Birch. Something about little miss Sachet returning to the dorm somewhat the worse for wear.]
So, let's say I've rung the doorbell, and while young Mathilda is putting on her best frock and pearls upstairs, her old man has handed me a glass of sherry and a cigar.
We're in the parlour, and the question is sternly posed:
"Young man, what precisely are your intentions towards my daughter?"
What on earth do I say?
"I plan to wine her, dine her, and ravish her fine young body."
No. Obviously this is a bad answer.
For one thing, many modern girls can outdrink this blogger by a fare-thee-well, and I would fear for my life should I even attempt this. Might wake up in an ice-cube filled bath tub with one of my kidneys missing.
Daddy's little girl can hold her own.
"We're going out to the drive-in, where I shall grope her in the back seat, sir."
Equally bad. Quality young ladies do NOT go to drive-in movie theaters on foot (necessitated because I do not own a car). Come to think of it, there are no drive-ins in San Francisco, so even the idea of renting a 1960's station wagon for this experiment is absurd.
"Strictly honourable, sir. Any crazy shit is up to her."
That right there shows the insanity of dating. Best behaviour and tension meet the unrealistic expectations of both parties head-on, and the terrifying results make for a zany and entertaining romantic movie comedy, but bad real life drama.
Woody Allen has already covered that territory, and it was very painful.
More reassuring answers involving reading scripture together, taking in a school play, or visiting the sick are also out of the question. Not because they're unbelievable, but because I could not possibly keep my face straight while delivering them.
WHAT DO PEOPLE DO ON DATES?
I actually haven't been on a date in over twenty years. So at this point, I haven't a clue what goes on during such things nowadays.
Back then, it always seemed so fraught, and many women relied on the man to guess EXACTLY what they wanted to do.
That still may be the case.
Left to my own devices I would suggest that we do something like go out to eat at a quiet place, enjoy good food together, then have a walk around Nob Hill and Russian Hill.
There are marvelous views there, and several lovely streets.
In particular I like the stretch of Hyde between Jackson and Vallejo, because of the trees lining it on both sides, and the friendly glow from the various eateries. Clay between Jones and Leavenworth has golden leaved Gingko trees at present, that too is very nice.
If it's still early in the evening, we could then go to the Russian Hill Bookstore and browse.
Either that, or possibly first head out to a coffee shop, then to the Asian Art Museum. There's a lovely bronze container in the shape of a rotund rhinoceros in the collection that always brings a smile to the face of whoever sees it, and a number of other fine items including some paintings by Sung masters.
After which, perhaps some dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant and a leisurely stroll home.
Unfortunately, such things do not appeal to many women.
That, by itself, tells me that dating is unlikely, as is actually finding someone worth seeing.
In this era, of course, dating involves far more alcohol and loud music.
I should also mention that when I still dated, the event left me feeling both nauseous and tense.
A date is the perfect way to establish that there is far too little in common for any further friendship, and that it was really unrealistic and ridiculous to even consider closer bonds.
I would consequently be quite surprised if there were any woman out there whose ideas in any way matched mine.
Not discounting the possibility entirely, you understand, but not planning any unrealistic adventures either.
By the way: If any of my readers have interesting ideas about what to do on dates, please feel free to leave a comment.
I'm always up for painful stomach cramps and hysterical laughter.
Thank you.
POST SCRIPTUM
So what exactly did I do to poor little miss Sachet? Simple.
I fed her the finest English food available in Upper Whipping-Birch at that time.
Made the thin little thing clean her plate, too. She looked rather underweight.
How was I to know that British cuisine was a bio-hazard?
Probably should have gone to an Indian restaurant instead, but back in the stone age proper young ladies were never seen in such places.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
FRISIAN PIPE TOBACCO FOR GENTLEMEN - ECHTE FRIESCHE HEEREN BAAI
Back in the early nineteenth century, two brothers went into business together selling smoking products.
Hendrik and Bouwe Taconis moved their factory to Leeuwarden in 1860 after several years, and happily started using images of a famous monument in the Frisian capital as marketing illustrations, continuing so even after they quarreled and split the company in two circa 1913.
Hence the name of Hendrik Taconis' tobacco factory: Tabaksfabriek De Oldehove.
Frisian style pipe tobacco was, in that day and age, considered healthy, and even up to the beginnings of the twentieth century was marketed to all ages including juveniles, who not only worked in the tobacco factories, but frequently featured on advertising posters for the many products then current - stogies, snuff, rolling tobacco, matured pipe tobaccos, etcetera.
Vibrant children happily smoking are so much more appealing than grayed and toothless antiques or naked savages!
Just the ticket for selling a "healthy" product, aimed at clean people with civilized tastes!
What set the so-called 'Echte Friesche Heerenbaai' ("real Frisian gentlemen's 'bay' tobacco") apart from other smoking products was the quality and purity of the ingredients: strictly leaf exported via the Chesapeake, mostly air cured (Maryland) along with some flue-cured tobacco.
No flavourings. No added sugars. No adulterants. Solid stuff.
And consequently, it naturally had to be good for you.
Baai Tabak ("Bay Tobacco") is still made from such tobaccos, although the sourcing is now world-wide. The tobacco is cut into thin ribbons, set aside for a few days after blending to homogenize the taste, simply packaged, and shipped.
The flavour is mild, slightly nutty, and reminiscent of similar ribbon-cut products, though veering away from the Virginia side.
BEYOND THE DUTCH TOBACCO TRADE
The Taconis brothers were probably the most well-known manufacturers of "bay" tobaccos at the beginning of the twentieth century. By the end of the twentieth century, their enterprises had been swallowed up into Douwe Egberts and, I believe, Royal Theodorus Niemeijer , both of whom still produced their own bay tobaccos (Coopvaert and Voortrekker respectively).
[Niemeijer is also the manufacturer of Clan Pipe Tobacco, a famous blend whose delightful aroma is the signature smell of Holland for many people.]
Between Van Nelle, Douwe Egberts, and Niemeijer, most of the small independent Dutch factories had been absorbed by the seventies.
Such names Louis Dobbleman of Rotterdam, F. Lieftinck of Groningen, Roelsma, Simon van Brakel en zoon, and others, had long ceased operations when Gallaghers sold Niemeijer (which had absorbed Van Rossem and Grunno) to Rothmans in 1990.
Sarah Lee, meanwhile, had acquired Douwe Egberts in 1978 and Van Nelle in 1989.
In 1998, the tobacco brands of both companies (now called Douwe Egberts Van Nelle - DEVN) were sold to Imperial Tobacco. The main pipe-tobacco brand represented in this acquisition was Amphora, most other products being rolling tobacco (both dark shag and blonde English style) as well as factory made cigarettes.
To the best of my knowledge, neither 'Echte Friesche Heeren Baai' nor most other Dutch pipe tobaccos are available in America anymore.
Imperial Tobacco does not export to the States.
You may be able to find Sail, Troost, and Vier Heeren Baai, which are all Niemeijer products manufactured by Orlik (part of 'Scandinavian Tobacco Group') since British-American Tobacco sold the brands in 2007.
For a while they too were unavailable, due to the hissy fit that B.A.T. threw five years ago, but along with other famous brands they are slowly coming back.
Personally, I've been enjoying various blends by Samuel Gawith, Kohlhase & Kopp, J. F. Germain & Son, G. L. Pease, and Cornell & Diehl for several years now, as well as the occasional McClelland product.
I do not miss most Dutch tobaccos - certainly not the two blends from Niemeijer on which I started (possibly 'Scotch Mixture', with heather honey and whisky, and 'Irish Mixture', with similar tarting-up - traumatic memories, though no detailed recollection) - but once in a blue moon I like to recapture part of the past by smoking McClelland's Virginia Woods, which charmingly echoes the old-fashioned 'Bay' ribbons.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Hendrik and Bouwe Taconis moved their factory to Leeuwarden in 1860 after several years, and happily started using images of a famous monument in the Frisian capital as marketing illustrations, continuing so even after they quarreled and split the company in two circa 1913.
Hence the name of Hendrik Taconis' tobacco factory: Tabaksfabriek De Oldehove.
Frisian style pipe tobacco was, in that day and age, considered healthy, and even up to the beginnings of the twentieth century was marketed to all ages including juveniles, who not only worked in the tobacco factories, but frequently featured on advertising posters for the many products then current - stogies, snuff, rolling tobacco, matured pipe tobaccos, etcetera.
Vibrant children happily smoking are so much more appealing than grayed and toothless antiques or naked savages!
Just the ticket for selling a "healthy" product, aimed at clean people with civilized tastes!
What set the so-called 'Echte Friesche Heerenbaai' ("real Frisian gentlemen's 'bay' tobacco") apart from other smoking products was the quality and purity of the ingredients: strictly leaf exported via the Chesapeake, mostly air cured (Maryland) along with some flue-cured tobacco.
No flavourings. No added sugars. No adulterants. Solid stuff.
And consequently, it naturally had to be good for you.
Baai Tabak ("Bay Tobacco") is still made from such tobaccos, although the sourcing is now world-wide. The tobacco is cut into thin ribbons, set aside for a few days after blending to homogenize the taste, simply packaged, and shipped.
The flavour is mild, slightly nutty, and reminiscent of similar ribbon-cut products, though veering away from the Virginia side.
BEYOND THE DUTCH TOBACCO TRADE
The Taconis brothers were probably the most well-known manufacturers of "bay" tobaccos at the beginning of the twentieth century. By the end of the twentieth century, their enterprises had been swallowed up into Douwe Egberts and, I believe, Royal Theodorus Niemeijer , both of whom still produced their own bay tobaccos (Coopvaert and Voortrekker respectively).
[Niemeijer is also the manufacturer of Clan Pipe Tobacco, a famous blend whose delightful aroma is the signature smell of Holland for many people.]
Between Van Nelle, Douwe Egberts, and Niemeijer, most of the small independent Dutch factories had been absorbed by the seventies.
Such names Louis Dobbleman of Rotterdam, F. Lieftinck of Groningen, Roelsma, Simon van Brakel en zoon, and others, had long ceased operations when Gallaghers sold Niemeijer (which had absorbed Van Rossem and Grunno) to Rothmans in 1990.
Sarah Lee, meanwhile, had acquired Douwe Egberts in 1978 and Van Nelle in 1989.
In 1998, the tobacco brands of both companies (now called Douwe Egberts Van Nelle - DEVN) were sold to Imperial Tobacco. The main pipe-tobacco brand represented in this acquisition was Amphora, most other products being rolling tobacco (both dark shag and blonde English style) as well as factory made cigarettes.
To the best of my knowledge, neither 'Echte Friesche Heeren Baai' nor most other Dutch pipe tobaccos are available in America anymore.
Imperial Tobacco does not export to the States.
You may be able to find Sail, Troost, and Vier Heeren Baai, which are all Niemeijer products manufactured by Orlik (part of 'Scandinavian Tobacco Group') since British-American Tobacco sold the brands in 2007.
For a while they too were unavailable, due to the hissy fit that B.A.T. threw five years ago, but along with other famous brands they are slowly coming back.
Personally, I've been enjoying various blends by Samuel Gawith, Kohlhase & Kopp, J. F. Germain & Son, G. L. Pease, and Cornell & Diehl for several years now, as well as the occasional McClelland product.
I do not miss most Dutch tobaccos - certainly not the two blends from Niemeijer on which I started (possibly 'Scotch Mixture', with heather honey and whisky, and 'Irish Mixture', with similar tarting-up - traumatic memories, though no detailed recollection) - but once in a blue moon I like to recapture part of the past by smoking McClelland's Virginia Woods, which charmingly echoes the old-fashioned 'Bay' ribbons.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TOBACCO IS BETTER THAN JESUS
A while back one of my acquaintances (you know who you are) accused me of being so OBSESSED with tobacco that it had become my religion. He had read my blog, and had far too often listened to me speak in worshipful tones about my favourite blends.
Tobacco is a cult, and I am a fanatic.
This, of course, is utter nonsense.
For one thing, I am not standing on a streetcorner declaiming loudly from The Book of Nicotines, chapter this verse that. Even though that section has enough briar and brimstone to scare all of you heretics straight.
Especially the bit about what happens to non-smoking wheatgerm freaks.
Hell, apparently, is filled with those horrid people.
Imps taunt them with 2nd hand smoke.
But what really got me thinking that he had scrambled his hard drive was the mention of proselytizing.
He accused me of trying to convert people, including the unborn, the helpless, and the ignorant. With threats, bribery, and unethical tactics.
Not so!
That time I was caught slapping nicotine patches on the bare arms of a troop of girl scouts was a non-conversionary action entirely, totally educational. Spirit of scientific inquiry and all that.
I always believed that the reason little girls screamed and squealed was nicotine jonesing. Or something.
Now I know.
They were quiet for hours, till the nicky wore off.
Not my fault that they're now panhandling for patch money.
Blame the legal system. You can't buy tobacco till you're all grown up.
Some of them are even in the Tenderloin mugging arthritic grannies for cigars.
Folks, San Francisco is a rough place. Just because they look sweet and innocent doesn't mean that they aren't depraved little hussies in need of salvation.
Keep an eye on your kids, and give the little savages whatever they need.
The incident with the tobacco brownies was simply an attempt to reach parity with the medical marijuana crowd. You'll have to admit, there's no chance that anyone would complain about second hand smoke.
They might whine about the emetic effect, but that's not my issue.
And, quite unlike several fundamentalist preachers, I do NOT suggest to my busty secretary that we go to a motel to talk about scripture. Or, in this case, to rub her all over with shredded tobacco till it comes out of her ears.
Then insisting that she never tell anyone.
"Remember, miss Jones, not a word - Jesus would be most upset if the parishioners EVER found out"
I think my "parishioners" would be overjoyed, not upset. They'd probably order the fancy boxed set of commemorative colour prints.
Yep, fully clothed pipe-smoker massaging a naked lady and possibly a goat with leaves, you betcha. These are sacred rituals.
Baptism by fire, and the laying on of hands.
Regrettably, I don't actually have a curvaceous secretary named miss Jones.
Nor the colour prints showing her up to her tatas in flue-cured leaf.
That proves that tobacco can't possibly be a religion.
My spiritual needs are NOT being met.
Tatas! Leaves! Amen!
Jesus would approve!
Seriously, I need to rub a nice miss all over with a fine Balkan mixture.
That by itself would be a momentous spiritual experience.
Get me hollering 'hallelujah' in record time.
Whoever! Thanks for the smoke!
Angelically aromatic.
Like incense.
* * * * *
Now then......
Anybody else want to chastise me for my habit?
Or try to convert me into quitting?
I'm all ears, truly I am.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tobacco is a cult, and I am a fanatic.
This, of course, is utter nonsense.
For one thing, I am not standing on a streetcorner declaiming loudly from The Book of Nicotines, chapter this verse that. Even though that section has enough briar and brimstone to scare all of you heretics straight.
Especially the bit about what happens to non-smoking wheatgerm freaks.
Hell, apparently, is filled with those horrid people.
Imps taunt them with 2nd hand smoke.
But what really got me thinking that he had scrambled his hard drive was the mention of proselytizing.
He accused me of trying to convert people, including the unborn, the helpless, and the ignorant. With threats, bribery, and unethical tactics.
Not so!
That time I was caught slapping nicotine patches on the bare arms of a troop of girl scouts was a non-conversionary action entirely, totally educational. Spirit of scientific inquiry and all that.
I always believed that the reason little girls screamed and squealed was nicotine jonesing. Or something.
Now I know.
They were quiet for hours, till the nicky wore off.
Not my fault that they're now panhandling for patch money.
Blame the legal system. You can't buy tobacco till you're all grown up.
Some of them are even in the Tenderloin mugging arthritic grannies for cigars.
Folks, San Francisco is a rough place. Just because they look sweet and innocent doesn't mean that they aren't depraved little hussies in need of salvation.
Keep an eye on your kids, and give the little savages whatever they need.
The incident with the tobacco brownies was simply an attempt to reach parity with the medical marijuana crowd. You'll have to admit, there's no chance that anyone would complain about second hand smoke.
They might whine about the emetic effect, but that's not my issue.
And, quite unlike several fundamentalist preachers, I do NOT suggest to my busty secretary that we go to a motel to talk about scripture. Or, in this case, to rub her all over with shredded tobacco till it comes out of her ears.
Then insisting that she never tell anyone.
"Remember, miss Jones, not a word - Jesus would be most upset if the parishioners EVER found out"
I think my "parishioners" would be overjoyed, not upset. They'd probably order the fancy boxed set of commemorative colour prints.
Yep, fully clothed pipe-smoker massaging a naked lady and possibly a goat with leaves, you betcha. These are sacred rituals.
Baptism by fire, and the laying on of hands.
Regrettably, I don't actually have a curvaceous secretary named miss Jones.
Nor the colour prints showing her up to her tatas in flue-cured leaf.
That proves that tobacco can't possibly be a religion.
My spiritual needs are NOT being met.
Tatas! Leaves! Amen!
Jesus would approve!
Seriously, I need to rub a nice miss all over with a fine Balkan mixture.
That by itself would be a momentous spiritual experience.
Get me hollering 'hallelujah' in record time.
Whoever! Thanks for the smoke!
Angelically aromatic.
Like incense.
* * * * *
Now then......
Anybody else want to chastise me for my habit?
Or try to convert me into quitting?
I'm all ears, truly I am.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
DINNER FOR ONE
In the past year and a half I've cooked rice probably three times. The strangeness of that is that rice is one of the fundaments of a meal. If there is no rice, have you really eaten?
A proper meal consists of soup, two or three dishes, white rice, and a chili-paste preparation (sambal).
Rice is key.
It's rather pointless to cook rice for only one person.
Actually, it's quite as ridiculous to cook soup, main dishes, and a sambal just for yourself.
THE WELL-DRESSED TABLE
Several things combine to make dinner. Soup is optional, but a variety of dishes isn't.
There should be a mainly vegetable dish, a mixed dish, and a meat or seafood dish. None of these need to be huge portions, and cooking them really doesn't take much time.
Even a stew as one of them doesn't require any great effort.
I usually do three dishes while the rice is cooking, and wash the pots before putting the food on the table.
I do not cook very much nowadays.
Odd, considering how often food is mentioned here.
When you eat alone, talking about food is more fun than making it.
RICE PLUS TWO OR THREE DISHES
In addition to cooked rice, the following:
Main dish ONE
Poached fish with shredded ginger and black mushrooms.
OR
Stirfried chicken and Chinese broccoli.
OR
Steamed fatty pork with ginger and shrimp paste.
OR
A nicely roasted bird.
Main dish TWO
Meatballs and dried oysters on a bed of greens.
OR
Sautéed longbeans with dried shrimp and chili-paste.
OR
Shrimp stir-fried with eggplant.
OR
Peppery lamb stew.
Main dish THREE
Pan-fried fish with well-thought out garnishes.
OR
Rice wine and soy sauce stewed chicken.
OR
Black-pepper crusted lamb chops.
OR
Mussels in broth with scallions and cilantro.
Main dish FOUR
Sautéed mushrooms with little bits of sausage.
OR
Coconut curry potatoes and shrimp with basil leaves.
OR
Spinach stir-fried with pork and shrimp-paste.
OR
Mixed vegetables and chicken chunks with garlic sauce.
Main dish FIVE
Cold boiled pork with garlic sauce.
OR
Steamed lemongrass chicken.
OR
Stirfried mustard green with oyster sauce.
OR
Asparagus with caper-lemon-mustard sauce.
And so forth, and so on.
One of the main dishes might actually be roast duck or soy-sauce chicken from one of the take-out counters in Chinatown.
Plus soup - for instance chicken broth with tofu skin, or tamarind and fish with some chopped vegetables. Basically something that serves to refresh and augment rather than fill.
Although a zesty seafood chowder or an Indonesian chicken and vegetable soup could very well be the main course.
A spicy sambal on the side. Along with rice, sambal is essential.
Lime and fish sauce may also play a role.
Perhaps as a dip.
I usually don't bother preparing dinner anymore.
I rather miss cooking.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A proper meal consists of soup, two or three dishes, white rice, and a chili-paste preparation (sambal).
Rice is key.
It's rather pointless to cook rice for only one person.
Actually, it's quite as ridiculous to cook soup, main dishes, and a sambal just for yourself.
THE WELL-DRESSED TABLE
Several things combine to make dinner. Soup is optional, but a variety of dishes isn't.
There should be a mainly vegetable dish, a mixed dish, and a meat or seafood dish. None of these need to be huge portions, and cooking them really doesn't take much time.
Even a stew as one of them doesn't require any great effort.
I usually do three dishes while the rice is cooking, and wash the pots before putting the food on the table.
I do not cook very much nowadays.
Odd, considering how often food is mentioned here.
When you eat alone, talking about food is more fun than making it.
RICE PLUS TWO OR THREE DISHES
In addition to cooked rice, the following:
Main dish ONE
Poached fish with shredded ginger and black mushrooms.
OR
Stirfried chicken and Chinese broccoli.
OR
Steamed fatty pork with ginger and shrimp paste.
OR
A nicely roasted bird.
Main dish TWO
Meatballs and dried oysters on a bed of greens.
OR
Sautéed longbeans with dried shrimp and chili-paste.
OR
Shrimp stir-fried with eggplant.
OR
Peppery lamb stew.
Main dish THREE
Pan-fried fish with well-thought out garnishes.
OR
Rice wine and soy sauce stewed chicken.
OR
Black-pepper crusted lamb chops.
OR
Mussels in broth with scallions and cilantro.
Main dish FOUR
Sautéed mushrooms with little bits of sausage.
OR
Coconut curry potatoes and shrimp with basil leaves.
OR
Spinach stir-fried with pork and shrimp-paste.
OR
Mixed vegetables and chicken chunks with garlic sauce.
Main dish FIVE
Cold boiled pork with garlic sauce.
OR
Steamed lemongrass chicken.
OR
Stirfried mustard green with oyster sauce.
OR
Asparagus with caper-lemon-mustard sauce.
And so forth, and so on.
One of the main dishes might actually be roast duck or soy-sauce chicken from one of the take-out counters in Chinatown.
Plus soup - for instance chicken broth with tofu skin, or tamarind and fish with some chopped vegetables. Basically something that serves to refresh and augment rather than fill.
Although a zesty seafood chowder or an Indonesian chicken and vegetable soup could very well be the main course.
A spicy sambal on the side. Along with rice, sambal is essential.
Lime and fish sauce may also play a role.
Perhaps as a dip.
I usually don't bother preparing dinner anymore.
I rather miss cooking.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 09, 2012
SELF PORTRAIT WITH PEN
Well, you get the idea. I flatter myself that it does look like me, but of course you understand that this blogger is not actually a badger.
I think it's illegal for badgers to operate blogs. Something in international law, most likely.
Yes, I smoke a pipe. Usually fairly smelly stuff, tobaccos with a tarry sooty aroma. They’re very exciting in the nose, gentle on the tongue.
But I do not often smoke my pipe at home, because my roommate does not find the reek appealing.
Or even tolerable.
She’s a good roommate. Accepts my peculiarities, doesn’t bug me about my habits.
Once in a blue moon we’ll share a cookie or a pastry.
What you do not see in the photo above is the collection of books. Vladimir Nabokov. Somerset Maugham. An entire library of volumes about the Dutch East Indies, as well as several tomes on mediaeval history. Drafting and engineering reference and manuals. Scores of foreign language dictionaries.
And several hundred cook books.
Books about food are rather like pornography. Lovely pictures, glowingly breathless descriptions. High quality paper stock.
Culinary texts are meant to be drooled over, fondled……..
The kind of thing you read late at night, when you can hear your roommate in her own bedroom gently sleep–breathing. Slowly, slowly, a page is turned, revealing a luscious full colour display of a lovely spread.
You imagine a badger in the kitchen, with pots and pans bubbling away. There is steam, and fragrances.
Carefully, carefully, a spoonful of something warm and spicy gets raised to bewhiskered lips.
It’s good! Sweet and creamy too.
You probably never knew that badgers are sensualists and epicures, did you?
Plus they’re huggable. Truly.
Just look at that likeable fellow above.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 08, 2012
GOOD FOR WHAT AILS
At tea time I headed into C'town for a late lunch. Actually it was a long delayed breakfast, and given that I hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon, I should have been ravenous. Not so. Mildly peckish, yes.
The best thing for an appetite is the presence of a charming woman to share a meal, which you probably realize is the one thing most markedly missing in my otherwise "very full" life.
A nice person with whom to eat makes food taste much better!
Heck, it might even lead to THREE meals a day.
Instead of one every 24 hours or so.
Just not hungry much.
RIVER NOODLE SOUP
Ended up at the San Sun Restaurant, where the owner happily recognized me. Since it relocated from the building on Stockton Street it has become one of my favourite places to eat, largely because of the food. Affordable, and considering the sheer quality of their dishes, as well as the cleanliness of place, it is quite a bargain.
A lovely bowl of broad rice stick noodles in a clean broth, with beansprouts, chopped scallion, cilantro, and a sprinkle of crispy fried onion shreds for garnish. Plus a plate of thin grilled pork, with that marvelous slightly sooty fatty taste.
And milk tea over ice.
[San Sun Restaurant: 三陽咖啡餐屋 (saam-yeung kafei tsan-ok), 848 Washington Street, San Francisco, CA 94108. It's between Grant and Stockton, on the corner of Ross Alley. Rice stick noodles in broth with grilled pork: 燒猪肉河粉 (siu chü yiuk ho fan). Grilled pork: 燒猪肉 (siu chü yiuk). Broad rice stick noodles: 河粉 (ho fan: "river noodles"). Iced milk tea: 凍紅茶奶 (tung hong cha nai).]
I scoped out the other customers who were reflected in the mirrors lining the walls.
Two animated white women, one of whom demonstrated awkward dexterity with her chopsticks. A table with South Americans joyously scarfing huge mounds of shrimp-fried rice and chowmein. A junior HK goomba and his moll. A sweet young couple at another table, both obviously ABC.
A gentle elderly white gentleman and his Cantonese wife. Some Mandarin speakers. Plus a European tourist family happily chowing down on stuff that from that distance I could not identify.
I'm sure it was food, though.
Afterwards, I headed around the corner into the alley, lighting up in front of the 南海同鄉會. I'm not sure exactly where Naam Hoi (南海) district is in Canton Province, but guessing by the location of their association hall it cannot be very important here in SF. All the big associations are on Grant Avenue or Waverly.
Ross Alley is not, strictly speaking, the epicentre of high status.
Opposite the other end of the alley on Jackson, a little down the street, is a small enterprise which may not be even noticed by outsiders.
The items in their window are not identified with name tags, and the name of the place is listed only in Chinese, on the awning and on the old-fashioned black and gold sign hung inside: 容記糕粉.
There is no English name.
It's next to Tung Shing Trading Co., in case you're wondering.
YONG KEE RICE NOODLE COMPANY
They make various dumplings, cookies, and dim sum items. And while they are very well known for their large and tasty chicken buns, for me the main draw is the best 鹹蛋酥 (haahm dan so) in Chinatown. Haahm dan so are small dome shaped pastries with a crumbly sweet crust, enclosing a salted egg yolk held in place by lotus seed paste. They are absolutely superlative with a cup of hot milk tea.
Because Yong Kee does not have tables, you have to buy them to take home.
I purchased six. I don't think my roommate has ever had one. She'll probably enjoy one or two of them for breakfast tomorrow.
Think of haahm dan so as similar to mooncakes. But more delicious, less refined. And available all year round.
[容記糕粉店 (yong gei gou fan diem), 732 Jackson Street, San Francisco, CA 94133. 415-986-3759. ]
Tasty food, a caffeinated beverage, delicious pastries, and a pipe.
Not a substitute for love, but a darn good cure for a headache.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The best thing for an appetite is the presence of a charming woman to share a meal, which you probably realize is the one thing most markedly missing in my otherwise "very full" life.
A nice person with whom to eat makes food taste much better!
Heck, it might even lead to THREE meals a day.
Instead of one every 24 hours or so.
Just not hungry much.
RIVER NOODLE SOUP
Ended up at the San Sun Restaurant, where the owner happily recognized me. Since it relocated from the building on Stockton Street it has become one of my favourite places to eat, largely because of the food. Affordable, and considering the sheer quality of their dishes, as well as the cleanliness of place, it is quite a bargain.
A lovely bowl of broad rice stick noodles in a clean broth, with beansprouts, chopped scallion, cilantro, and a sprinkle of crispy fried onion shreds for garnish. Plus a plate of thin grilled pork, with that marvelous slightly sooty fatty taste.
And milk tea over ice.
[San Sun Restaurant: 三陽咖啡餐屋 (saam-yeung kafei tsan-ok), 848 Washington Street, San Francisco, CA 94108. It's between Grant and Stockton, on the corner of Ross Alley. Rice stick noodles in broth with grilled pork: 燒猪肉河粉 (siu chü yiuk ho fan). Grilled pork: 燒猪肉 (siu chü yiuk). Broad rice stick noodles: 河粉 (ho fan: "river noodles"). Iced milk tea: 凍紅茶奶 (tung hong cha nai).]
I scoped out the other customers who were reflected in the mirrors lining the walls.
Two animated white women, one of whom demonstrated awkward dexterity with her chopsticks. A table with South Americans joyously scarfing huge mounds of shrimp-fried rice and chowmein. A junior HK goomba and his moll. A sweet young couple at another table, both obviously ABC.
A gentle elderly white gentleman and his Cantonese wife. Some Mandarin speakers. Plus a European tourist family happily chowing down on stuff that from that distance I could not identify.
I'm sure it was food, though.
Afterwards, I headed around the corner into the alley, lighting up in front of the 南海同鄉會. I'm not sure exactly where Naam Hoi (南海) district is in Canton Province, but guessing by the location of their association hall it cannot be very important here in SF. All the big associations are on Grant Avenue or Waverly.
Ross Alley is not, strictly speaking, the epicentre of high status.
Opposite the other end of the alley on Jackson, a little down the street, is a small enterprise which may not be even noticed by outsiders.
The items in their window are not identified with name tags, and the name of the place is listed only in Chinese, on the awning and on the old-fashioned black and gold sign hung inside: 容記糕粉.
There is no English name.
It's next to Tung Shing Trading Co., in case you're wondering.
YONG KEE RICE NOODLE COMPANY
They make various dumplings, cookies, and dim sum items. And while they are very well known for their large and tasty chicken buns, for me the main draw is the best 鹹蛋酥 (haahm dan so) in Chinatown. Haahm dan so are small dome shaped pastries with a crumbly sweet crust, enclosing a salted egg yolk held in place by lotus seed paste. They are absolutely superlative with a cup of hot milk tea.
Because Yong Kee does not have tables, you have to buy them to take home.
I purchased six. I don't think my roommate has ever had one. She'll probably enjoy one or two of them for breakfast tomorrow.
Think of haahm dan so as similar to mooncakes. But more delicious, less refined. And available all year round.
[容記糕粉店 (yong gei gou fan diem), 732 Jackson Street, San Francisco, CA 94133. 415-986-3759. ]
Tasty food, a caffeinated beverage, delicious pastries, and a pipe.
Not a substitute for love, but a darn good cure for a headache.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BELCHING HAPPILY
Two ladies were talking near me, and I’m not ashamed to admit I was listening in on their conversation.
At one point, one of them asked the other whether she should get breast implants. Her friend thought it was a good idea, but cautioned her to at first just do one – “to find out if it really suits you”.
No, neither of these two prizes was blonde.
And for the record, their frontages weren’t particularly modest either.
It reminded me of the tale about the Belgian Highway Authorities wondering about the low rate of traffic accidents in Britain, as compared to their own country. They concluded that driving on the left had something to do with it. It forced the person behind the wheel to think better before acting or re-acting.
So clearly that was worth trying in Belgium also.
“But for the first 6 months, trucks only – so people get used to it!”
Logically that makes complete sense. All change must be gradual.
GO ON, TRY IT!
Many of the folks wandering around Chinatown are baffled by the 'newness' of it all. This is NOT their comforting home environment, and everything is just so frightfully odd.
They feel this way despite the fact that they themselves are the foreign element, having come to San Francisco from Arkansas or Iowa, and quite regardless of the evident age and worn familiarity of the buildings and businesses.
Obviously, to the natives, it is neither new, nor odd.
Being somewhat able to speak culinary Cantonese is a great help in finding tasty things to stick into my mouth in San Francisco. But our Midwestern friends are not so lucky. Frequently they will first look at the offerings at bakeries and dimsummeries with panicked fear, then timidly point at something and stutter out “what is that?”
When it becomes evident that the lady behind the counter cannot explain it in Midwesternese, or even English, they will huddle together to elect ONE member of their group as the person who will attempt to negiotiate something non-frightening to eat.
Desperate measures! They're so hungry!
And NOTHING looks like a hot pocket.
Sometimes I jump in to explain stuff. Usually not.
The first question that they really SHOULD ask after “what is that” is not “what is that” again, but “how much?”
None of these things is expensive, most items are less than a dollar.
Yesterday I ate very well indeed for two dollars and eighty cents (plus a one dollar bill into the tip jar).
Just happily trying ONE unknown item isn't going to bankrupt you, and you might actually like it. And if there are four or five of you, share three or four things that you've never seen before.
A fascinating adventure, for less than five bucks.
How can you lose?
* * * * * *
It must have taken immense courage for the first person to drink that very first cup of coffee centuries ago.
“Oh, the horrible expense! And no doubt it will turn me into a vampire-werewolf, with fangs and buboes!
I will be excommunicated and disinherited! Aaaaugh!”.
Same goes for beer, champagne, and cheese.
All entirely new at some point.
Either that or they were threatened with death.
I will nevertheless applaud the tourists for the sheer courage it takes to NOT eat at Ihop or Boo-king when in San Francisco. Sheer cold guts.
Bravely into the unknown, my comrades.
As the poet Tennyson might have put it:
“Edibles to right of them, edibles to left of them, edibles in front of them....... into the valley of death......”
A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.
And if you have doubts, just do ONE breast at a time.
I suggest the one on the left, so people 'get used' to it.
All change must be gradual.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
At one point, one of them asked the other whether she should get breast implants. Her friend thought it was a good idea, but cautioned her to at first just do one – “to find out if it really suits you”.
No, neither of these two prizes was blonde.
And for the record, their frontages weren’t particularly modest either.
It reminded me of the tale about the Belgian Highway Authorities wondering about the low rate of traffic accidents in Britain, as compared to their own country. They concluded that driving on the left had something to do with it. It forced the person behind the wheel to think better before acting or re-acting.
So clearly that was worth trying in Belgium also.
“But for the first 6 months, trucks only – so people get used to it!”
Logically that makes complete sense. All change must be gradual.
GO ON, TRY IT!
Many of the folks wandering around Chinatown are baffled by the 'newness' of it all. This is NOT their comforting home environment, and everything is just so frightfully odd.
They feel this way despite the fact that they themselves are the foreign element, having come to San Francisco from Arkansas or Iowa, and quite regardless of the evident age and worn familiarity of the buildings and businesses.
Obviously, to the natives, it is neither new, nor odd.
Being somewhat able to speak culinary Cantonese is a great help in finding tasty things to stick into my mouth in San Francisco. But our Midwestern friends are not so lucky. Frequently they will first look at the offerings at bakeries and dimsummeries with panicked fear, then timidly point at something and stutter out “what is that?”
When it becomes evident that the lady behind the counter cannot explain it in Midwesternese, or even English, they will huddle together to elect ONE member of their group as the person who will attempt to negiotiate something non-frightening to eat.
Desperate measures! They're so hungry!
And NOTHING looks like a hot pocket.
Sometimes I jump in to explain stuff. Usually not.
The first question that they really SHOULD ask after “what is that” is not “what is that” again, but “how much?”
None of these things is expensive, most items are less than a dollar.
Yesterday I ate very well indeed for two dollars and eighty cents (plus a one dollar bill into the tip jar).
Just happily trying ONE unknown item isn't going to bankrupt you, and you might actually like it. And if there are four or five of you, share three or four things that you've never seen before.
A fascinating adventure, for less than five bucks.
How can you lose?
* * * * * *
It must have taken immense courage for the first person to drink that very first cup of coffee centuries ago.
“Oh, the horrible expense! And no doubt it will turn me into a vampire-werewolf, with fangs and buboes!
I will be excommunicated and disinherited! Aaaaugh!”.
Same goes for beer, champagne, and cheese.
All entirely new at some point.
Either that or they were threatened with death.
I will nevertheless applaud the tourists for the sheer courage it takes to NOT eat at Ihop or Boo-king when in San Francisco. Sheer cold guts.
Bravely into the unknown, my comrades.
As the poet Tennyson might have put it:
“Edibles to right of them, edibles to left of them, edibles in front of them....... into the valley of death......”
A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.
And if you have doubts, just do ONE breast at a time.
I suggest the one on the left, so people 'get used' to it.
All change must be gradual.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, January 07, 2012
NAKED MIDDLE AGED WHITE MAN
The reaction to the title of this blogpost might well be “ew, I did not need to see that!”
Which could very well be a valid critique of the white dude in question, but it probably does not need to be said either.
Reason being that given the circumstances under which you would normally see a naked middle aged white man, questions might be asked regarding so critical a reaction.
What were you doing there in the direct line of sight?
Did you plan on getting an eyeful?
My guess is that you probably don't see many naked white men.
Probably just one, and that only in the mirror.
Unless you're a doctor.
Of course, you might be married to one, or sleeping with one.
Or both of those idiosyncratic eventualities.
I shall not question your choices.
In fact, I rather approve.
A NAKED WHITE MAN
It should come as no surprise to you that I am sometimes a naked middle aged white man. Especially when the light is right.
Not at all times, but if the occasion calls for it.
Once my roommate has left on Saturdays or Sundays, I magically transform from dashing sleepy dude in pajamas clutching a cup of coffee to NAKED MIDDLE AGED WHITE MAN.
A superhero. Saviour of the universe. Bather extraordinaire.
A naked wet white man.
I see myself in the hallway mirror as I head toward the bathroom with my cup of coffee and something to smoke. One cannot actually smoke a pipe while taking a bath, but small cigarillos are just about perfect. If accidentally dropped into the water, it is no major loss.
The mirror tells me I'm decent looking. No beergut, no droopy wattles, no overly fatty bits. Trim and erect.
Except for the fact that the reflected masculine apparition is gloriously naked, it might be a distinguished looking gentleman out for a stroll, holding a coffee cup.
Even in profile, not bad.
A very likable nude.
Mm. Foxy fellow.
Silvery tips.
Admittedly, I would NOT want to see such a thing wandering around the apartment if it weren't me.
I'm not really into the glowing naked male gestalt.
That's more of a women's thing, I imagine.
If I had my druthers, there would be a naked woman in my hallway.
Also lacking beergut, droopy wattles, & overly fatty bits.
Such damsels are hard to find nowadays.
Even among the younger crowd.
If it were a SMALL woman, both of us could take a bath together; the tub isn't large enough to handle two large people. Two normal folks, yes.
Personally I like to soak for an hour or more. Relaxing in hot water is good for the soul. A small woman might want to spend more time in the tub, or less. Either way, there's room for flexibility, personal adaptation, and warm hospitality.
And lots of soft fluffy towels.
After the bath I usually go out for snackipoos in Chinatown. But if there were any call for it, those snackipoos could be delivered, or picked up well before the nice long bath.
Even served during the bath. Along with fresh hot coffee or tea.
The possibilities for juggling hot soapy water, caffeinated beverages, and dim sum type items, is virtually unlimited. Please imagine warm custard from one of the scrumptious egg-tarts made by the Golden Gate Bakery on Grant avenue dribbling down your chest, or flakes from a delicious pastry floating on the surface of the water, circling a hip or a nipple.
Buttered toast?
Some more coffee?
How about a chicken bun?
At present, there is no small woman in my life, and my bathing is quite solitary. Consequently there is no dim sum in the house, and I keep myself occupied during tub-time by reading mystery novels or news magazines.
Putting on clothes is probably the most important follow-up to a long stay in the tub, so I make sure that I am fully dressed by the time I get to Chinatown.
Few people there actually wish to see a naked middle aged white man.
Even if he is clean and fragrant from a long hot soak.
No, there is NO resemblance to a boiled lobster.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which could very well be a valid critique of the white dude in question, but it probably does not need to be said either.
Reason being that given the circumstances under which you would normally see a naked middle aged white man, questions might be asked regarding so critical a reaction.
What were you doing there in the direct line of sight?
Did you plan on getting an eyeful?
My guess is that you probably don't see many naked white men.
Probably just one, and that only in the mirror.
Unless you're a doctor.
Of course, you might be married to one, or sleeping with one.
Or both of those idiosyncratic eventualities.
I shall not question your choices.
In fact, I rather approve.
A NAKED WHITE MAN
It should come as no surprise to you that I am sometimes a naked middle aged white man. Especially when the light is right.
Not at all times, but if the occasion calls for it.
Once my roommate has left on Saturdays or Sundays, I magically transform from dashing sleepy dude in pajamas clutching a cup of coffee to NAKED MIDDLE AGED WHITE MAN.
A superhero. Saviour of the universe. Bather extraordinaire.
A naked wet white man.
I see myself in the hallway mirror as I head toward the bathroom with my cup of coffee and something to smoke. One cannot actually smoke a pipe while taking a bath, but small cigarillos are just about perfect. If accidentally dropped into the water, it is no major loss.
The mirror tells me I'm decent looking. No beergut, no droopy wattles, no overly fatty bits. Trim and erect.
Except for the fact that the reflected masculine apparition is gloriously naked, it might be a distinguished looking gentleman out for a stroll, holding a coffee cup.
Even in profile, not bad.
A very likable nude.
Mm. Foxy fellow.
Silvery tips.
Admittedly, I would NOT want to see such a thing wandering around the apartment if it weren't me.
I'm not really into the glowing naked male gestalt.
That's more of a women's thing, I imagine.
If I had my druthers, there would be a naked woman in my hallway.
Also lacking beergut, droopy wattles, & overly fatty bits.
Such damsels are hard to find nowadays.
Even among the younger crowd.
If it were a SMALL woman, both of us could take a bath together; the tub isn't large enough to handle two large people. Two normal folks, yes.
Personally I like to soak for an hour or more. Relaxing in hot water is good for the soul. A small woman might want to spend more time in the tub, or less. Either way, there's room for flexibility, personal adaptation, and warm hospitality.
And lots of soft fluffy towels.
After the bath I usually go out for snackipoos in Chinatown. But if there were any call for it, those snackipoos could be delivered, or picked up well before the nice long bath.
Even served during the bath. Along with fresh hot coffee or tea.
The possibilities for juggling hot soapy water, caffeinated beverages, and dim sum type items, is virtually unlimited. Please imagine warm custard from one of the scrumptious egg-tarts made by the Golden Gate Bakery on Grant avenue dribbling down your chest, or flakes from a delicious pastry floating on the surface of the water, circling a hip or a nipple.
Buttered toast?
Some more coffee?
How about a chicken bun?
At present, there is no small woman in my life, and my bathing is quite solitary. Consequently there is no dim sum in the house, and I keep myself occupied during tub-time by reading mystery novels or news magazines.
Putting on clothes is probably the most important follow-up to a long stay in the tub, so I make sure that I am fully dressed by the time I get to Chinatown.
Few people there actually wish to see a naked middle aged white man.
Even if he is clean and fragrant from a long hot soak.
No, there is NO resemblance to a boiled lobster.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, January 06, 2012
MY LITTLE CABBAGE!
All morning long I have been listening to coworkers talking about sweet potatoes. It seems that you can cook these things in the microwave.
Did you know that? I didn’t.
There's any number of things that you can do with a sweet potato, all of which will render it DELICIOUS!
Stuff involving salt, for instance.
Frankly, sweet potatoes do not wangle my oyster.
I am entirely unmoved by the miracle of the sweet potato.
Consequently, I am NOT surprised, or even startled in the slightest, by the realization that NOBODY ever calls their significant other "my little sweet potato".
Mon petit patate-douce!
I rather suspect that doing so would render the caller an "igname bouilli" pdq.
Dioscorea is just NOT sexy.
Not cute. Not huggy. Not sensuous.
Cabbage, on the other hand........
Rare indeed is the woman who doesn't appreciate being likened to a little bokchoi.
Oh, mon petit Brassica campestris de Chine, mon chose douce!
See, that's love talk right there. Eloquent!
Either that or the French are berserk, but if the alternative is believing that women are sweet potatoes, we must probably reject that theory.
Mustn't we, mes choux petites?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Did you know that? I didn’t.
There's any number of things that you can do with a sweet potato, all of which will render it DELICIOUS!
Stuff involving salt, for instance.
Frankly, sweet potatoes do not wangle my oyster.
I am entirely unmoved by the miracle of the sweet potato.
Consequently, I am NOT surprised, or even startled in the slightest, by the realization that NOBODY ever calls their significant other "my little sweet potato".
Mon petit patate-douce!
I rather suspect that doing so would render the caller an "igname bouilli" pdq.
Dioscorea is just NOT sexy.
Not cute. Not huggy. Not sensuous.
Cabbage, on the other hand........
Rare indeed is the woman who doesn't appreciate being likened to a little bokchoi.
Oh, mon petit Brassica campestris de Chine, mon chose douce!
See, that's love talk right there. Eloquent!
Either that or the French are berserk, but if the alternative is believing that women are sweet potatoes, we must probably reject that theory.
Mustn't we, mes choux petites?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, January 05, 2012
BALKAN SOBRANIE ARTICLE BY G. L. PEASE
Greg Pease discusses Balkan Sobranie Smoking Mixture in an article at PipesMagazine.com.
It is a significant essay, which pipe smokers will find well-worth reading.
BALKAN SOBRIETY by G.L. Pease
http://pipesmagazine.com/blog/out-of-the-ashes/balkan-sobriety/#more-5519
One of the things he reveals is that the original recipe contained 50% Latakia, which would put it exactly in line with several other well-known mixtures, including what was probably the most popular blend at Drucquer & Sons in Berkeley.
The proportion of 'Coarse Cut Turkish' was 20%. The other tobaccos are unidentifiable, but were most likely flue-cured products.
I have not smoked a significant quantity of the Gallagher versions of Balkan Sobranie - his evidence establishes that Gallagher tinkered with the recipe several times, reducing the Latakia content - and as far as the Drucquer mixtures are concerned I did not smoke them after the early eighties either, as I was going through a bit of a non-smoking spell.
By the time I woke up, both Drucquers and Balkan Sobranie had disappeared.
50%
That fifty percent proportion is very interesting. When I started blending on my own again, I remembered what I had smoked before among the Druquer spectrum, and compounded accordingly.
The Latakia was not the same as it once had been.
Many of the varietal Virginias and other American tobaccos that were available to Drucquers were no longer made.
Black Virginia Ribbon was nowhere to be found.
Consequently my first efforts, while conceptually similar to what I had liked in the past, were unsmokeable monstrosities.
This was back around the turn of the century, and since then I have come up with better personal mixtures.
Of some of them I've made several batches over the years.
It wasn't till Marty Pulvers at Sherlock's Haven on Battery Street introduced me to Greg's products that I realized that actually there were still many fine tobaccos well worth smoking. My initial stockpiling of the new era was several dozen cans of Greg's blends, significantly Kensington and Blackpoint.
Since then I've also put aside a few score tins of Westminster.
Et autres. Lots of autres.
G. L. Pease learned at Drucquer's that age makes a difference.
Age was something that many of the factories in operation since the sixties did not fully understand. They had streamlined their production methods, tightened up their supply chains, and by the eighties what had taken years from farm to smoker was often a much younger, "fresher" product. Some old-style manufacturers had been notorious for having blending stocks older than the owner's grandchildren.
In the modern era, tying up funds for that length of time lessened competitiveness, especially when others kept no more on hand than what was needed for the next production run.
The effect of increased efficiencies on the blends was noticeable over time.
Retail tobacconists and wholesalers also tightened up their stocking practices.
That too had its effect.
Even if the composition was EXACTLY the same as it always had been, it no longer yielded the same end-result.
Robert Rex at Drucquer's understood the effect of age on tobacco.
Greg Pease understood the effect of age on tobacco.
When I first popped open a tin of Greg Pease's Kensington, it reminded me of the smell from tins of Balkan Sobranie when I first became fond of the mixture back in Valkenswaard.
My tobacconist at the time had a supply which had been acquired years before, and I was the first customer in a very long time to develop a fondness for stinky English offerings, as the vast majority of his clientele prefered cigarettes or Dutch cigars. At some point he ran out of stock, and I survived on various other products, including some Dunhill mixtures that had been gathering dust. The newer supply didn't taste quite the same, and when I returned to the States in 1978, the Balkan Sobranie here did not taste the same either.
A certain smell was missing. Plus something else.
Was it really Balkan Sobranie? I had doubts.
But it did have the right amount of Latakia.
So it kept me happy for a while.
THAT CREOSOTE REEK
Nowadays I do not use more than about 42.5% Latakia in my own experimental mixtures. And really, given the blending tobaccos available to the average consumer, 36% to 40% is probably best. This week I've smoked several bowls of something I put together a few months ago that's around thirty percent Latakia, the rest being mostly a medium red Virginia flake, plus some other stuff including Turkish.
The proportions seem quite balanced. And it's pleasantly leathery.
In conversation recently, Greg stated that the quality of Latakia available today is excellent, and again mentioned that since the seventies or earlier the leaf available has been Cyprian rather than Syrian.
He avers that the Latakia today is much the same as we used at Drucquers.
The differences between the two types can be significant - Cyprus grows Smyrna seed tobacco (small leaf, more or less 'Turkish') - whereas Syrian was usually Shek al Bint; large leaf, and to my mind that suggests something more akin to a mild air-cured tobacco, possibly somewhat similar to Maryland (?).
The smoke-curing is also different.
I tend to doubt that modern Latakia is sustainable in a mixture at anywhere near the measure that was once fairly common. But Greg has access to much more good blending stock, and greater variety too. Plus a lot more familiarity and experience with tobacco.
So I'll yield the floor, and refer you to his article for more assured information about Balkan Sobranie.
Besides, Kensington and Westminster are among my favourite tobaccos.
He sure knows how to make a lovely blend.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It is a significant essay, which pipe smokers will find well-worth reading.
BALKAN SOBRIETY by G.L. Pease
http://pipesmagazine.com/blog/out-of-the-ashes/balkan-sobriety/#more-5519
One of the things he reveals is that the original recipe contained 50% Latakia, which would put it exactly in line with several other well-known mixtures, including what was probably the most popular blend at Drucquer & Sons in Berkeley.
The proportion of 'Coarse Cut Turkish' was 20%. The other tobaccos are unidentifiable, but were most likely flue-cured products.
I have not smoked a significant quantity of the Gallagher versions of Balkan Sobranie - his evidence establishes that Gallagher tinkered with the recipe several times, reducing the Latakia content - and as far as the Drucquer mixtures are concerned I did not smoke them after the early eighties either, as I was going through a bit of a non-smoking spell.
By the time I woke up, both Drucquers and Balkan Sobranie had disappeared.
50%
That fifty percent proportion is very interesting. When I started blending on my own again, I remembered what I had smoked before among the Druquer spectrum, and compounded accordingly.
The Latakia was not the same as it once had been.
Many of the varietal Virginias and other American tobaccos that were available to Drucquers were no longer made.
Black Virginia Ribbon was nowhere to be found.
Consequently my first efforts, while conceptually similar to what I had liked in the past, were unsmokeable monstrosities.
This was back around the turn of the century, and since then I have come up with better personal mixtures.
Of some of them I've made several batches over the years.
It wasn't till Marty Pulvers at Sherlock's Haven on Battery Street introduced me to Greg's products that I realized that actually there were still many fine tobaccos well worth smoking. My initial stockpiling of the new era was several dozen cans of Greg's blends, significantly Kensington and Blackpoint.
Since then I've also put aside a few score tins of Westminster.
Et autres. Lots of autres.
G. L. Pease learned at Drucquer's that age makes a difference.
Age was something that many of the factories in operation since the sixties did not fully understand. They had streamlined their production methods, tightened up their supply chains, and by the eighties what had taken years from farm to smoker was often a much younger, "fresher" product. Some old-style manufacturers had been notorious for having blending stocks older than the owner's grandchildren.
In the modern era, tying up funds for that length of time lessened competitiveness, especially when others kept no more on hand than what was needed for the next production run.
The effect of increased efficiencies on the blends was noticeable over time.
Retail tobacconists and wholesalers also tightened up their stocking practices.
That too had its effect.
Even if the composition was EXACTLY the same as it always had been, it no longer yielded the same end-result.
Robert Rex at Drucquer's understood the effect of age on tobacco.
Greg Pease understood the effect of age on tobacco.
When I first popped open a tin of Greg Pease's Kensington, it reminded me of the smell from tins of Balkan Sobranie when I first became fond of the mixture back in Valkenswaard.
My tobacconist at the time had a supply which had been acquired years before, and I was the first customer in a very long time to develop a fondness for stinky English offerings, as the vast majority of his clientele prefered cigarettes or Dutch cigars. At some point he ran out of stock, and I survived on various other products, including some Dunhill mixtures that had been gathering dust. The newer supply didn't taste quite the same, and when I returned to the States in 1978, the Balkan Sobranie here did not taste the same either.
A certain smell was missing. Plus something else.
Was it really Balkan Sobranie? I had doubts.
But it did have the right amount of Latakia.
So it kept me happy for a while.
THAT CREOSOTE REEK
Nowadays I do not use more than about 42.5% Latakia in my own experimental mixtures. And really, given the blending tobaccos available to the average consumer, 36% to 40% is probably best. This week I've smoked several bowls of something I put together a few months ago that's around thirty percent Latakia, the rest being mostly a medium red Virginia flake, plus some other stuff including Turkish.
The proportions seem quite balanced. And it's pleasantly leathery.
In conversation recently, Greg stated that the quality of Latakia available today is excellent, and again mentioned that since the seventies or earlier the leaf available has been Cyprian rather than Syrian.
He avers that the Latakia today is much the same as we used at Drucquers.
The differences between the two types can be significant - Cyprus grows Smyrna seed tobacco (small leaf, more or less 'Turkish') - whereas Syrian was usually Shek al Bint; large leaf, and to my mind that suggests something more akin to a mild air-cured tobacco, possibly somewhat similar to Maryland (?).
The smoke-curing is also different.
I tend to doubt that modern Latakia is sustainable in a mixture at anywhere near the measure that was once fairly common. But Greg has access to much more good blending stock, and greater variety too. Plus a lot more familiarity and experience with tobacco.
So I'll yield the floor, and refer you to his article for more assured information about Balkan Sobranie.
Besides, Kensington and Westminster are among my favourite tobaccos.
He sure knows how to make a lovely blend.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CHINESE BROCCOLI - A SANE ALTERNATIVE TO THAT HORRID VEGETABLE YOU NORMALLY EAT!
Chinese Broccoli is easier to cook than Italian Broccoli, not malodorous, and far less woody and cabbagy.
It is slightly more bitter, but that adds inestimably to its appeal.
After washing and chopping, blanch briefly in boiling salted water, remove, drain, rinse with cold water, then stirfry. When the pan is good and hot add a splash of sherry or stock to flash-steam the vegetable.
A few drops of sesame oil for fragrance, and you're done.
It's wonderful with shrimp-sauce, oyster sauce, or combined with fish or meat (also briefly pre-cooked).
芥蘭, 芥蘭芯, 或蘭芯菜也...
If you're looking for it at a Chinese store or on a restaurant menu, you will probably see it listed as 芥蘭 (kai-lan) or 蘭芯 (lan-sam).
The second term, lan-sam, refers generally to the pithy inner stalks with the outer leaves removed.
For instance: 炒芥蘭芯 (chau kai-lan sam) is stir-fried Chinese broccoli, 蠔油蘭芯 (hou-yau lan-sam) is the stalky parts stirfried with oyster sauce.
蝦醬芥蘭 (haa-jeung kai-lan) is Chinese Broccoli flash-stirfried with a dollop of fragrant shrimp paste (鹹蝦醬 haahm-haa jeung), some chili, and jiggers stock and rice wine.
Most delicious!
Now, please stop reheating that sulfurous other 'thing' in the office microwave.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It is slightly more bitter, but that adds inestimably to its appeal.
After washing and chopping, blanch briefly in boiling salted water, remove, drain, rinse with cold water, then stirfry. When the pan is good and hot add a splash of sherry or stock to flash-steam the vegetable.
A few drops of sesame oil for fragrance, and you're done.
It's wonderful with shrimp-sauce, oyster sauce, or combined with fish or meat (also briefly pre-cooked).
芥蘭, 芥蘭芯, 或蘭芯菜也...
If you're looking for it at a Chinese store or on a restaurant menu, you will probably see it listed as 芥蘭 (kai-lan) or 蘭芯 (lan-sam).
The second term, lan-sam, refers generally to the pithy inner stalks with the outer leaves removed.
For instance: 炒芥蘭芯 (chau kai-lan sam) is stir-fried Chinese broccoli, 蠔油蘭芯 (hou-yau lan-sam) is the stalky parts stirfried with oyster sauce.
蝦醬芥蘭 (haa-jeung kai-lan) is Chinese Broccoli flash-stirfried with a dollop of fragrant shrimp paste (鹹蝦醬 haahm-haa jeung), some chili, and jiggers stock and rice wine.
Most delicious!
Now, please stop reheating that sulfurous other 'thing' in the office microwave.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
PLEASANT CHINATOWN INTERLUDE
The period between Christmas and New Year was lovely.
Short days at the office, followed by a relaxed lunch, and a pipe.
Only a few minor cloud whisps in the sky.....
Monday the 26th.
Had bitter-melon chicken over rice (凉瓜雞球飯 leung-gwa kai-kau fan) at Joy Hing Barbecue Noodle House (再興黄毛雞粉 Tsoi Hing wong-mo kai fan) on Kearny Street. Tasty, but it could have been better. They cut the bittermelon straight across rather than at a slant (which is a more exciting cut, cooking-wise), and used more salted black bean (豆豉 dausi) than I would have added. Normally I will simply have rice-stick noodles (河粉 ho-fan; 'river noodles') in soup at Joy Hing, but I was feeling adventurous. Why stick with the tried and true? And I am very fond of bitter melon.
I discovered that the patient waitress with the nice smile has cousins who work during lunch time on weekdays.
She herself doesn't.
So I should probably only go there evenings or weekends.
Service excellent at all times, drip coffee likewise splendid also.
Tuesday the 27th.
Wonton noodle soup (雲吞湯麵 wantan tong mien) at Hon's (洪記麵家 Hung Gei Mien Ga) on Kearny.
Tasty. Shrimp and pork mince in tender dough skins, al dente fresh noodles, stock made with dried flounder as part of the fond.
This place is odd because half of the people who work there are Mandarin-speakers, the others are elderly Cantonese. The northerners perfectly represent what everyone always finds mildly unfortunate about them, namely that they are larger than normal, and have meatier features. This does not detract in any way from the experience.
Darn fine wonton.
Wednesday the 28th.
Washington Street, grilled pork and river noodles in broth (燒猪肉河粉 siu chü yiuk ho fan) at San Sun Restaurant (三陽咖啡餐屋 saam yeung kafei tsan-ok) on Washington.
Yummy. Scrumptious. Orgasmic. Especially with hot sauce.
Followed by Vietnamese coffee (越南咖啡 YuetNaam kafei).
Thursday the 29th.
Nah, ain't gonna mention where I ate. Reason being that it was not up to par. An "educational" experience at a crowded and well-known place.
Poached chicken and roast duck with rice, Hong Kong style milk-tea. The food was barely okay, the milk-tea with extra condensed milk was good..... but had its very own wading pool. Harried waitresses and an atmosphere of chaotic frustration.
One of the people at the next table was falling asleep into the cold remains of his iron-plate steak dinner, most of the other customers were having noodle soup or spaghetti.
Why do I see a large mound of potato salad over there?
It looks seriously past its due-date.
Came with the steak dinner.
Overmuch absurd.
Friday the 30th.
Back to Joy Hing. Yellow-fuzz chicken and river noodles in broth (黄毛雞粉 wong-mo-kai fan). Plus, of course, Vietnamese coffee.
Superlative as usual. Heaven itself, twixt a warm bowl and a cold glass.
Listened to two gruff Mandarin-speaking male customers and a limp noodle of a woman at the next table seriously discussing San Francisco - which baffles them - as well as a taped Cantonese comedy show from Kuala Lumpur filled with hysterical laughter and zaniness. Perhaps the studio audience was told they'd all be slaughtered if they didn't make pronto with the giddy noise?
I hope they turn that crap off in the evening when I intend to be there again, because it really isn't an improvement.
Saturday the 31st. and Sunday the 1st.
Snackipoos Saturday, 肉鬆包 and 蛋撻 for breakfast on Sunday, and a late lunch at a Vietnamese restaurant overlooking the park.
Basically three different places for coffee (咖啡) and eaties.
At the Viet place you can add an egg to everything.
Each time, food was followed by a pipefull.
I smell lovely -- you will please follow the pleasant aroma of pipe tobacco to find the foxy Dutch-American.
Monday the 2nd.
Darn. The charming small woman with the beautiful hands is off on Mondays!
Woe!
Oh well, the steamed pork cake with salt fish (鹹魚肉餅 haahm yu yiuk bing) is nevertheless delicious, and both 'aunties' are kinda flabbergasted that I'm eating it with evident enjoyment. How strange!
The other two customers in the place are a serious Chinese Christian fundamentalist who doesn't remember me thank heavens and his potential long-suffering life-mate the poor dear. Other than their humourless demeanor, there isn't much interesting about them.
Loaded up my pipe and waltzed out feeling on top of the world.
By my standards, it was a very productive week.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Short days at the office, followed by a relaxed lunch, and a pipe.
Only a few minor cloud whisps in the sky.....
Monday the 26th.
Had bitter-melon chicken over rice (凉瓜雞球飯 leung-gwa kai-kau fan) at Joy Hing Barbecue Noodle House (再興黄毛雞粉 Tsoi Hing wong-mo kai fan) on Kearny Street. Tasty, but it could have been better. They cut the bittermelon straight across rather than at a slant (which is a more exciting cut, cooking-wise), and used more salted black bean (豆豉 dausi) than I would have added. Normally I will simply have rice-stick noodles (河粉 ho-fan; 'river noodles') in soup at Joy Hing, but I was feeling adventurous. Why stick with the tried and true? And I am very fond of bitter melon.
I discovered that the patient waitress with the nice smile has cousins who work during lunch time on weekdays.
She herself doesn't.
So I should probably only go there evenings or weekends.
Service excellent at all times, drip coffee likewise splendid also.
Tuesday the 27th.
Wonton noodle soup (雲吞湯麵 wantan tong mien) at Hon's (洪記麵家 Hung Gei Mien Ga) on Kearny.
Tasty. Shrimp and pork mince in tender dough skins, al dente fresh noodles, stock made with dried flounder as part of the fond.
This place is odd because half of the people who work there are Mandarin-speakers, the others are elderly Cantonese. The northerners perfectly represent what everyone always finds mildly unfortunate about them, namely that they are larger than normal, and have meatier features. This does not detract in any way from the experience.
Darn fine wonton.
Wednesday the 28th.
Washington Street, grilled pork and river noodles in broth (燒猪肉河粉 siu chü yiuk ho fan) at San Sun Restaurant (三陽咖啡餐屋 saam yeung kafei tsan-ok) on Washington.
Yummy. Scrumptious. Orgasmic. Especially with hot sauce.
Followed by Vietnamese coffee (越南咖啡 YuetNaam kafei).
Thursday the 29th.
Nah, ain't gonna mention where I ate. Reason being that it was not up to par. An "educational" experience at a crowded and well-known place.
Poached chicken and roast duck with rice, Hong Kong style milk-tea. The food was barely okay, the milk-tea with extra condensed milk was good..... but had its very own wading pool. Harried waitresses and an atmosphere of chaotic frustration.
One of the people at the next table was falling asleep into the cold remains of his iron-plate steak dinner, most of the other customers were having noodle soup or spaghetti.
Why do I see a large mound of potato salad over there?
It looks seriously past its due-date.
Came with the steak dinner.
Overmuch absurd.
Friday the 30th.
Back to Joy Hing. Yellow-fuzz chicken and river noodles in broth (黄毛雞粉 wong-mo-kai fan). Plus, of course, Vietnamese coffee.
Superlative as usual. Heaven itself, twixt a warm bowl and a cold glass.
Listened to two gruff Mandarin-speaking male customers and a limp noodle of a woman at the next table seriously discussing San Francisco - which baffles them - as well as a taped Cantonese comedy show from Kuala Lumpur filled with hysterical laughter and zaniness. Perhaps the studio audience was told they'd all be slaughtered if they didn't make pronto with the giddy noise?
I hope they turn that crap off in the evening when I intend to be there again, because it really isn't an improvement.
Saturday the 31st. and Sunday the 1st.
Snackipoos Saturday, 肉鬆包 and 蛋撻 for breakfast on Sunday, and a late lunch at a Vietnamese restaurant overlooking the park.
Basically three different places for coffee (咖啡) and eaties.
At the Viet place you can add an egg to everything.
Each time, food was followed by a pipefull.
I smell lovely -- you will please follow the pleasant aroma of pipe tobacco to find the foxy Dutch-American.
Monday the 2nd.
Darn. The charming small woman with the beautiful hands is off on Mondays!
Woe!
Oh well, the steamed pork cake with salt fish (鹹魚肉餅 haahm yu yiuk bing) is nevertheless delicious, and both 'aunties' are kinda flabbergasted that I'm eating it with evident enjoyment. How strange!
The other two customers in the place are a serious Chinese Christian fundamentalist who doesn't remember me thank heavens and his potential long-suffering life-mate the poor dear. Other than their humourless demeanor, there isn't much interesting about them.
Loaded up my pipe and waltzed out feeling on top of the world.
By my standards, it was a very productive week.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
HOWLING AT THE MOON
Festivus: Aluminium pole, airing of grievances, feats of strength. And making George Costanza weep.
File this under 'better late than never'.
No aluminium pole. No feats of strength. No George Costanza.
AIRING OF GRIEVANCES.
To all American men: Stop talking about sports. Real people are NOT interested in what a bunch of big bottomed mutants wearing shiny tights do on a football field. Your juvenile crypto-sexual obsession with springy male booty and pigskin fumbles makes us sick. And the same goes for ALL other sports. Every time I have to listen to you lot going on about football, baseball, basketball, or whatever ball, my eyes start closing and my stomach goes liquid.
Buncha freaks. Get over it.
To all young American women: Okay, yes you are too fat, you can stop asking. It's the crap you eat, you're all built like frikkin' heffalumps.
No, do NOT tell me about your fabulous shopping experience! Just. Shut. Up.
If I never EVER have to hear about handbags, your coworkers, and your goldarned insecurities again, I'll be happy.
Let's just agree that I am not interested in you, nor keen to get into your sweaty over-sized panties, and that since you let half the tribe of Cro-Magnon (ie, sports obsessed American men) in there already, there is NO call for me to even think of going there.
We'll get along fine if you lot stay out of my life -- just like your dumbass brothers who JUST. WON'T. SHUT. UP. about sports.
Europeans: Shut up. No one cares what you think. Pussies.
To all Mandarin-speaking young women in San Francisco: Does the term "gold digger" mean anything to you? How about "high priced tart"? No? Doesn't surprise me.
To all Mandarin-speaking men in San Francisco: Get over yourselves. Smarmy ineffective limp-dicked gangster types are a dime a dozen. You're NOT better than the Cantonese, and your snooty pretensions do not hide that basically you are all a bunch of farts.
To all Philippino men in the Bay Area: None of you are gentlemen, and your women are the ones who are really in control. You are just incapable of grasping that fact.
To all Philippino women in the Bay Area: You are NOT irresistable.
I am not going shopping with you.
To all Christians: Please shut the hell up. You are insufferable cunts.
THIS IS MY YEAR, DAMMIT.
Nah, probably not going to ask anyone out on a date this year, or even try to have a relationship again. Why bother?
I'm a fifty two year old man, and if I don't have a wife and kids by now, it ain't gonna happen. Hell, even a sex-life of any sort is unlikely, and finding a woman who is actually a person rather than a shallow souped-up shopaholic consumerite is just not possible.
Besides, most women have arses & attitudes bigger than a barn door.
Colour me uninterested, inflexible, and unimpressed.
And the next time some ESPN-obsessed dillwad starts blathering on about sports, I'm going to start yawning, scratching, and quoting Nabokov or Somerset Maugham. Why should I have to listen to your inane gibbering, just because you represent the normal male?
By the same token, I am NOT interested in your jejeune concepts of politics, finance, or gun ownership.
This year, I will be far less tolerant of idiots. Life is too short to drink starbucks.
I am anti-social, a misanthrope, and rather much a misogynist.
Yes, I am happy with that.
At least a hell of lot happier than putting up with all that other crap would make me.
NOTE:
Cantonese speakers, Mexicans, Talmudists, and readers of Jane Austen are off the hook for now.
As are young ladies who resemble Audrey Hepburn or Cherie Chung.
Or possibly Maggie Cheung in very feisty roles.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
File this under 'better late than never'.
No aluminium pole. No feats of strength. No George Costanza.
AIRING OF GRIEVANCES.
To all American men: Stop talking about sports. Real people are NOT interested in what a bunch of big bottomed mutants wearing shiny tights do on a football field. Your juvenile crypto-sexual obsession with springy male booty and pigskin fumbles makes us sick. And the same goes for ALL other sports. Every time I have to listen to you lot going on about football, baseball, basketball, or whatever ball, my eyes start closing and my stomach goes liquid.
Buncha freaks. Get over it.
To all young American women: Okay, yes you are too fat, you can stop asking. It's the crap you eat, you're all built like frikkin' heffalumps.
No, do NOT tell me about your fabulous shopping experience! Just. Shut. Up.
If I never EVER have to hear about handbags, your coworkers, and your goldarned insecurities again, I'll be happy.
Let's just agree that I am not interested in you, nor keen to get into your sweaty over-sized panties, and that since you let half the tribe of Cro-Magnon (ie, sports obsessed American men) in there already, there is NO call for me to even think of going there.
We'll get along fine if you lot stay out of my life -- just like your dumbass brothers who JUST. WON'T. SHUT. UP. about sports.
Europeans: Shut up. No one cares what you think. Pussies.
To all Mandarin-speaking young women in San Francisco: Does the term "gold digger" mean anything to you? How about "high priced tart"? No? Doesn't surprise me.
To all Mandarin-speaking men in San Francisco: Get over yourselves. Smarmy ineffective limp-dicked gangster types are a dime a dozen. You're NOT better than the Cantonese, and your snooty pretensions do not hide that basically you are all a bunch of farts.
To all Philippino men in the Bay Area: None of you are gentlemen, and your women are the ones who are really in control. You are just incapable of grasping that fact.
To all Philippino women in the Bay Area: You are NOT irresistable.
I am not going shopping with you.
To all Christians: Please shut the hell up. You are insufferable cunts.
THIS IS MY YEAR, DAMMIT.
Nah, probably not going to ask anyone out on a date this year, or even try to have a relationship again. Why bother?
I'm a fifty two year old man, and if I don't have a wife and kids by now, it ain't gonna happen. Hell, even a sex-life of any sort is unlikely, and finding a woman who is actually a person rather than a shallow souped-up shopaholic consumerite is just not possible.
Besides, most women have arses & attitudes bigger than a barn door.
Colour me uninterested, inflexible, and unimpressed.
And the next time some ESPN-obsessed dillwad starts blathering on about sports, I'm going to start yawning, scratching, and quoting Nabokov or Somerset Maugham. Why should I have to listen to your inane gibbering, just because you represent the normal male?
By the same token, I am NOT interested in your jejeune concepts of politics, finance, or gun ownership.
This year, I will be far less tolerant of idiots. Life is too short to drink starbucks.
I am anti-social, a misanthrope, and rather much a misogynist.
Yes, I am happy with that.
At least a hell of lot happier than putting up with all that other crap would make me.
NOTE:
Cantonese speakers, Mexicans, Talmudists, and readers of Jane Austen are off the hook for now.
As are young ladies who resemble Audrey Hepburn or Cherie Chung.
Or possibly Maggie Cheung in very feisty roles.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
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,...
