YOU SAY YOU WANT SOMETHING SOOTY?

By now you should know that I am not involved in a relationship, and therefore spend my weekends happily twiddling my thumbs in solitude. They're very good thumbs. Two of them.
Most Saturdays and Sundays I soak a bit in the bath, head into C'town for a bite to eat, then end up at the office for several hours.
And, of course, I smoke my pipes.


FAVOURITE BRIARS

There's something addictively sensuous about a fine piece of wood, made more wonderful by memories and attached meanings; which blend you last smoked therein, where and when, and with whom.

Several pipes in my collection have rarely been used in many years - they are associated with places and people that cannot be regained, and there is a note of fond sadness to them.
Others are temporarily back-shelved, for strong yet unclear reasons.
Comoys, Dunhills, Petersons, & other famous makes.
Some pipes I'm just not sure about.
Emotions come into play.
Can't explain it.

One of my favourites, however, is an extremely unimpressive piece. A plain bent briar of unexalted make, mellowed and polished from much handling. The top is blackened, unlike most of my other pipes. Neurotically, I want to see just how tarred-up I can get the rim.
Because of the cut, one side is paler than the other.
The smell of affection adheres to the bowl.

It's not a superior grade of wood, and looks quite common.
And yet it is special, I feel happy smoking it.
The badger and his trusty pipe.

I stroke it fondly, and it speaks to me.
It evokes, and also comforts.
A remarkable friend.


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TO READ IN EXILE

It is quiet in the Financial District on weekends, really the perfect place for privacy. Although sometimes privacy is overrated.  There are times I would rather be by myself, and times when I would prefer company. If the company were good company, it would be exceedingly pleasant to have far less time to myself.
But one does not get to choose.

Few people are content to let a person deep in a book alone.

They will nose over inquisitively, and start off with “what’s that you’re reading?” Then, without reflecting on the answer, they proceed to tell you about a volume they looked at once, a long time ago. It was very great literature.  Surely everyone who reads has heard of it. They recommend it sincerely.
Reference, dictionaries, history, and college texts just don’t cut it.
What was it called again? The Da Vinci Graph?
Anyway, it was super meaningful.
Totally OMG awesome.
You must agree!


As an illustration of horrible recommendations, let me direct you to a wonderful link:


THE TOP SIX CRAPPY BOOKS

http://www.amazon.com/Top-6-Crappy-Books/lm/3QCNEZ0VDLDNF

1. The book of Mormon.
2. Harry Potter.
3. My Brother Sam is Dead.
4. Bridge to Terabithia.
5. Dancing on the Edge.
6. Animorphs Box Set (Books 1 - 4).

Possibly you object to that list. Especially when you note that 'The Da Vinci Code' isn't mentioned, neither is 'Memoirs of a Geisha'. Both are certifiable codswallop. People who enjoyed either masterpiece may be beyond salvation, and must be utterly avoided.

Pedestrian prose, mono-dimensional characters, and limp plots, which not even the over-the-top descriptive language, romantic settings, and great events opportunistically co-opted by the shitty author, could redeem from the literary compost heap. Characters that so perfectly express the inner being of the person who invented them that they just will not die, and can not be killed.
Endings that leave you both drained and nauseated.
Horrible turgid balderdash.

Somewhere, somewhen, somebody is going to demand that you read something awful.
When you are demonstrably engaged in reading something better.

Reading is a dangerous gamble around other people. Especially if they won't be still.
I wouldn't mind someone who also reads, and has no cell-phone.
A person like that quite probably does not exist.

The office is a nice quiet place to read on a weekend, but evenso, it must sound loopy as all git-out when I ask myself out loud: "would you like another cup of tea?" And respond to the query by saying "why yes, I would, thank you, so very kind!"  How courteous!
Lots of hot cups. Go downstairs for the occasional smoke outside the building.
Then more tea, and several more chapters. The bright of day fades.
A last pipe-full in the semi-anonymity of the Occidental.
It could have been a more sociable day, yes.

Afterwards, home.


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YOUR ETERNAL MENTAL HEALTH

Sporadic checking of my blog stats shows that I have perverted tobacco mavens among my readers, as well as serious foodies.
Possibly the two sides are in eternal conflict with each other, much like the Pandawa brothers against their cousins the Kurawa.
Decide for yourself which side represents truth, justice, and the American way, and which side you will join.
Jesus is immaterial. It’s not about Jesus.
The Pandawa, the Kurawa.
Light and dark.
Mouths.


Most visitors this week:
PORTRAIT OF A NAKED SCHOOLGIRL ON A BED OF TOBACCO
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2010/07/portrait-of-naked-schoolgirl-on-bed-of.html.

Yummy. The tobacco, that is. The girl is not materially described, but the necessary composition of the blend is elucidated.
Boys, you have good taste.


Runner-up:
HONG KONG ROAST GOOSE IN SHAM TSENG
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/10/hong-kong-roast-goose-in-sham-tseng.html.

Also yummy. Much better for your mental equilibrium than the previous concept.


Remember, Pandawa versus Kurawa, light versus dark.
Or both, if you are a pipe-smoker.
We're a complex bunch.
I am both.
All.


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MOUNTING EXCITEMENT

It’s a bright warm day and you don’t have to do anything. So you wake up late, in a comfortable bed, and stretch with languour.
Oddly, a bunny rabbit with lovely soft fur is right in there with you.

Suddenly you are surrounded platters of yummy roast duck, steamed fish, crispy greens, and a large bowl of pudding!
Wonderful goodies!
So delicious!

And a BIG carrot for the bunny rabbit!

Later, you relax contentedly.
The bunny rabbit sleeps.

Have some chocolate.


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ROTTEN CHEESE

After receiving a particularly odious screed recently, it is necessary to once again post a handy link to all my articles about the negative side of the Dutch.

Click here:
ROTTE KAAS

In that string of posts you will find everything about Geert Wilders, Dutch racism against Moroccans, Turks, and Jews, the rabid anti-Americanism which is rampant among the ever-so-superior natives of a small unimportant country with a spotted historical record of its own, as well as some in-depth stuff about harridans such as Anja Meulenbeult and the loathsome widow Duisenberg.

To the person who sent me the offensive letter: You must realize that I've not even touched half of the material. Five centuries of the Dutch being brutal imperialists and international busibodies leaves an awful lot of evidence. 


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GREEN ROBE ISLAND

One of the areas of Hong Kong which combines a beautiful name with an utterly commonplace appearance is Tsing Yi Tao (青衣島), east of Kowloon. Green Robe Island - does that appellation not suggest verdant hills flowing down to the water's edge, a veritable paradise of nature and solitude?

The name actually refers to a type of fish (green wrasse in English). They can be stir-fried with Chinese mustard greens or bitter gourd. Not particularly good eating, but not at all bad in saucy dishes.

The original name of the island was 'Spring Flower Rain' (春花落).

Generations ago the islanders made their living by farming and fishing, today the island is an important industrial hub and satellite community for Hong Kong.
Other than having been briefly a mecca for local nudists, the most exciting aspect of the island consists of the Tsing Yi Bridge (青衣大橋) and several modern container terminals.
I won't claim that the bridge is a marvel of modern engineering, but it is rather elegant.
A container port is never elegant.

The urban areas of Tsing Yi are by no means lovely. Very modern highrise apartment buildings and housing estates, with centralized shopping areas catering to the surrounding developments. Given the large number of people who live here, it isn't surprising that within the commercial complexes you can find some good eats.
They're easy to get to, as the buses from Kowloon go down the major streets, and the MTR also serves the island.
Air-conditioning is a way of life.


THREE RECOMMENDATIONS


稻香超級漁港 DOU HEUNG CHIU KAP YU GONG
稻香 (Tao Heung Dimsum & Seafood)
Maritime Square, 33 Tsing King Road.
Ground floor, unit G04.
[青衣, 青敬路 33號, 青衣城, 地下 G04 舖]

North-east corner of Tsing Yi Island.
Remarkably good dim sum. They use top notch shrimp for the har gau (蝦餃) and shrimp spring rolls (蝦春卷), and their beef meat balls (牛肉丸) are nice and juicy. Their various rolled sheet noodles (腸粉) are absolutely gorgeous.
If your eating habits include unhealthy stuff, above all try the char siu stuffed pineapple buns (菠蘿叉燒包). As you should know, pineapple buns (菠蘿包) contain no fruit - the name refers to the cracked appearance of the outer surface - and are considered one of the most dangerous snackfoods in Hong Kong, due to high calorie count and high fat content. Adding charsiu (叉燒) as a filling ups the ante considerably, besides making them addictive.
Soup dumplings (湯餃) in sharkfin and abalone broth are a must-try.
Also order the fabulous squab (紅燒乳鴿).

The prices are comparable to fancier dimsummeries in San Francisco, unfortunately the quality is far, far better.


長發大酒樓 CHEUNG FAT TAAI JAU LOU
(Cheung Fat Restaurant)
Cheung Fat Shopping Centre, Cheung Fat Estate,
Fifth floor, unit 501.
[青衣, 長發邨, 長發商場 5樓, 501 號舖]

North shore, near the water.
Nothing really stands out here, but it's a variety of good food at reasonable prices.
Decent dim sum early in the day, dining later.


一粥麵 YAT JUK MIN
(Super Super Congee & Noodles)
Cheung Fat Shopping Centre, Cheung Fat Estate,
Ground floor, unit 319.
[青衣, 長發邨, 長發商場 319 號舖]

North shore, near the water.
Hong Kong style convenience food. Rice porridge, noodle dishes, and sheet noodle.
You might like the 'salty lean-pork pig-blood cubes rice porridge' (鹹瘦肉豬紅粥 haahm sau yiuk chu hong juk). One common problem with many versions of congee that use lean pork is that the meat is cooked till less than appetizing - it's a textural thing. That at times is also a problem here.
But you cannot find pig's blood so easily in San Francisco, and by and large this chain does a decent job.
Have it with a cup of milk-tea (奶茶 nai cha) for a totally HK experience.


There are hundreds of other restaurants located in the shopping centres of the various housing estates, everything from HK style street food, snacks, bakeries, to Sushi, Thai, American fast-food, and high-end dining. The scope for experimentation and casual noshing is quite impressive, all conveniently close together.
Did I mention air-conditioning already?
Air-con, air-con, air-con.


If you're in HK on business, you should also know that there are various good hotels on Tsing Yi Island, many in the area of Tsing Yi Road south of the bridge. Most are mere minutes from the Tsing Yi MTR station.
Tsim Sha Tsui is within easy transport reach, HK Central district is less than half an hour away by train, the airport approximately fifty minutes.
So it's as good a place to base yourself while there as any.

Of course, there's always Mongkok, if you want something a bit more 'earthy'.




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CATERING TO PERVERTS

For some reason the name Henry Darger came up more than once recently in conversation. Henry Darger, as the attentive reader remembers, was the obsessive genius to whom e-kvetcher once compared me.

Literature mavens everywhere were dismayed, depressed even, when that stellar composer in the field of prose passed from the scene.
We need to name a literary prize after him.

Anyway, while providing background detail on the aforementioned wordsmith, reference was made to a cocktail that I had invented:


THE HENRY DARGER

2 oz Bourbon.
Heavy dash Grenadine.
Three drops Angostura.
Over ice in a highball glass, top with ginger ale.
Add a cherry, a bendy straw, and an umbrella.

Suitable for coming out events, funerals, baby showers, and Quinceañeras, as well as both bar and bat mitzvoth.
Especially if you have Hello Kitty highball glasses.

Note: Can also be made with Scotch. I suggest Dalmore.


I make mention of this, because apparently some complete degenerate out there is marketing pipe tobacco that is flavoured with Grenadine.
How horrible, and how European!
I cannot imagine anything more depraved.
This must be stopped.


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A VERY BON APPÉTIT

As you know by now, I spend some time around mid-day at a location near the office smoking my pipe, often in the company of several cigar smokers. They are there because they aren’t pipe smokers.
Yes, I know. Somewhat perverted. Pipes are so much more refined yet masculine.
I was there again today. Beautiful weather, sunshine, gentle breeze.
No cigar smokers.

This post is NOT about smokers.
Or tobacco.


About ten feet away from where I stood were two charming young women having lunch. They weren’t bothered by my smoke – it dissipated fast enough – but were vivaciously talking to each other while eating.
I was too far away to hear what they were saying, but it didn’t really matter. Out of the corner of my eye I could see every time one of them lifted her sandwich to her mouth, took a big bite, then crinkled her face in a smile of pleasure, trying to respond to her companion.
Food, cheerful conversation, good company – why, there’s so much to enjoy!
Obviously I thought so too.
Sunny day, bowl of nice tobacco, and a young woman within clear view whose face radiates such happiness while eating.
I know her cheeks bulge when she smiles and burbles with a mouth full of food. And she has eyes that are lively and intelligent.
And you, dear reader, know that I enjoy the sight of a woman relishing a meal.
There’s a lovely innocence to girlish dining pleasure.
It’s a feast for the eyes.

My own lunch later wasn’t nearly as exciting.

But I had had a very nice smoke beforehand.

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OUR LOVELY BOUQUET!

It rained today, which is unusual for this time of year. Rain in San Francisco diminishes people's consideration for each other, as they are desperate to not get moisture on their expensive hairdos, and will gladly rip out someone's eyes by accident with the vicious spokes on their umbrellas if that proves necessary unavoidable.
Up yours, buster, immigrant from the Midwest coming through!

Rain also brings out smells and makes them stronger. Earth, dirt, greasy asphalt. Expensive wet hairdos and soaked designer jeans.....  
Gee, that's an ENORMOUS amount of denim - are there a lot of were-elephants in Detroit?
The odious funk of wet Midwesterner on the bus.
Gasoline, tree moss, fresh green leaves.
As well as the delicious 'perfume' of that foxy looking smoker - a delicate undertone of aged pressed Virginia pipe tobacco, with an intoxicating top note of fine cigarillo - whose personal fragrance spectrum is infinitely appealing, sexy even!
Mmmmmmmm-a-liscious!


It must be because of the rain that the office kitchen stinks today.

A robust, fecund, earthy, miasma of death, disease, and tropical fruit.

We can't identify what it is. But this is the first time I've ever seen someone (the CFO) spray Febreze on a garbage can. Suffice to say that it did not work. But it did add considerably to the smell, and most of us are now scared to go near.
The building super has been called.
Naught will be done till eventide.
For sanity's sake, don't breathe.

Personally, I don't mind the smell. It's rather like durian.
But sweeter, which must be the effect of the Febreze. The entire cocktail of reeks is a mere nose-echo from where I sit, never absent but not at prime puky peak of funk.
It's bearable. Mysterious, and evocative.

"You know what that's called in Louisiana?"

"A boo-fay!!!"

That jibe was uttered by the Senior Veep of Marketing in the direction of the CFO, who hails from the gulf coast. The CFO took it in good grace, despite sitting closer to the source of general nausea than anyone else. Earlier, he himself had eloquently and at great length accused me of deliberately not finishing my dead rat sandwich yesterday, once he heard me saying that whatever it was in the waste bucket wasn't there on Sunday.
How could I, had I no heart for other people?
Dang, Atboth, you're a mean sumbitch!
No wonder I did collections!

By the time the Senior Veep made his crack about 'boo-fay', it smelled more like deceased skunk than dead rat.  That is much more a Louisiana thing, I think.

Still, we don't know if the smelly item is, or was, food. If it was food, someone in the company has started eating zombies. Which is probably the latest diet-craze.
Betcha they'll lose weight.

We all will at this rate.


FINAL NOTE

This blogger's beguiling personal aroma at present is more Latakia than cigarillo.
Reason being that I had a bowlful of something dark before lunch.
It was yummy. I smell good.

That thing in the kitchen is growling.

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IT'S NOT ABOUT THE TEA AND COOKIES!

Lunch by myself again today.
The coffee was pretty darn awful, and I probably should not have arrived when the staff wanted to eat. Requesting a bowl of this and a piece of that just when the woman behind the counter was spearing a nice juicy morsel for herself seemed interfering. Don't get between a woman and her food!

Later after everyone had finished eating, the mood was much much brighter. If you want a woman to be happy, fill her up. Doing so works for men too.
In consequence of her return to happiness, the counter woman didn't snarl at the two big pink people who come in and squawked unintelligibly.

"Dyuhsillbiyah?!?"

Pause for fifteen seconds.

"Biyah, dyav biyahiyah?"

Total blankness. After a few more seconds of non-communication, the couple left to find their suds elsewhere. Briefly I thought of informing them that walking around with an open container of alcohol would get them in trouble with the police, and would make a frightful impression on the locals. But by that time they were outside, and the counter woman cheerfully asked me: 「佢話乜嘢?」

Their accents had been so thick that even native speakers would have been hard-pressed to decipher their animal-like yelping.


佢問: 「你賣啤酒呀?」。你知啊，

有啲澳洲人，成日都想飲啤酒... 。

[He asked: "do you sell beer?" ......  You know, there are some Australians, all day long they just wanna chug ...... ]


Explaining that at the time would have been fairly useless, as there was not a drop of beer on the premises.
Soft drinks, yes. But Australians don't take softdrinks, not after breakfast.

Despite the mild entertainment presented by travelling foreign alcoholics in Chinatown, lunch was not engaging. Random hubbub is comforting, yes, and there are times when I enjoy observing people, and listening in on conversations that don't involve me. But it's far too impersonal, and it lacks the zest of a one on one exchange of feelings and opinions.
Plus it involves lousy coffee. That's always a downer.


WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO?

I would have preferred to stay at home, occasionally going into the kitchen for a snackipoo.
But without some other person to do it with, that would have been empty.
If there's no one else, what's the point of tea and cookies?
Tea and cookies are just the preamble.

Bright sunny day, windows open, quiet apartment.
Smooth wooden surfaces, the sound of water.
Rising steam, and a warm sudsy bath.

I need a spark of excitement.

The Australians probably did eventually find beer, which works for them.
Lager doesn't do anything at all for me.
Tea and cookies.


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THE MIND THAT WANDERS UPON WAKING

Last night I could see the fog blowing in from my office windows. When I went outside to smoke, the horns out on the Bay could even be heard in the financial district. The street was mostly empty, though occasionally a vehicle would sail by on its way back to the bridge.
Whisps and trails of moisture softened the upper edges of the highrise buildings.
The office is empty on weekends; yesterday I was the only one there.
High up, I looked out over vanishing downtown canyons.
By the time I left the sky was darkest purple.

Everything could be much more enjoyable with a nice other person around. Eating, smoking, reading, even just puttering about.  A warm hand, a kind eye, and each finding comfort in the other’s presence.
Like salt, like sugar, like spices; warmth, whispers, fragrance and fresh air.
I shall imagine a woman who quietly curls up with a crisp juicy apple and a book, and just enjoys my company. After devouring several chapters she puts the volume down and drifts off, dreaming of hedgehogs and weasels in a forest.  The sporadic sound of clacking from my keyboard as I research things on the web makes a metronome for her sleeping thoughts.

Later, we walk homewards together through the dark grey city. At the top of Nob Hill waterdroplets pearl on her bangs, and glint in light from the glowing orbs.
Streetlamps and the ghostly breeze-touch are both made velvet by the moisture.
In front of her apartment she thanks me for the lovely apples.
The door clicks closed. She is home.

I wander back to my place, still strangely warm.


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SMOOTH STUFFING

After jaunting around in North Beach, the bookseller and I were walking home on Pacific Street the other night, when we paused to have a final cigar at Hyde. While we were chatting a group of Central American gentlemen were wishing each other buenas noches on the opposite corner.
A tall pale woman with a short skirt and high heels walked past, up Hyde Street en-route to her apartment.

Imagine several sets of beady eyes following those legs uphill, in admiring silence.
After the fog finally shrouded her from view, conversations started up again.
Men are built that way. We have a fondness for beauty. It’s how it is.
Which is why most men would rather watch the animal channel.
A pity that programming directors don’t understand this.


SMALL PLEASURES

In an ideal world, many men would stay at home all day, enjoying animal shows on the tube, listening to the gentle voice of a naturalist explaining that the mama bear’s protective instinct will cause her to rip apart the national park visitor who got too close to her cub. Completely without any bias or bestial bloodlust, she will efficiently and with despatch eviscerate a family of middle-class hikers from Arizona who made the mistake of feeding spam to her precious furball, then forcibly dunk him under in the frigid mountain stream several times to wash the human funk off his pelt. Stupid cub! Stay away from those horrid creatures, you don’t know where they’ve been! They smell of high-fat diets and soft drinks!
The natural world is a beautiful thing.

I never watch television anymore. It’s more enjoyable to sit on my bed reading, with the stuffed animals arranged along the wall. Occasionally one of them will try poking me with a sharp stick – especially if I’m in my pajamas – or ever so surreptitiously move closer and closer to my wallet, hoping to make off with the plasticky visa thing that enables internet sales. The monkey is determined to buy a banana plantation and have it delivered, the headsheep wants a throne.
Gunther the Raccoon just knows that fried German things are available.
Mostly they stare off into space, waiting for me to leave.

They are complete wild things. There is evidence that when I’m out of the house, they frequently bash each other, pose in front of the mirror, try to steal my bowl of laundry money, and look for the bottle of Islay single malt (which I’ve hidden).
I don’t know how any of them would deal with nature, they are such city creatures.
Everything they desire is within reach, with a credit card. My credit card!
They lament my lack of generosity in not yielding it upon demand.
If that mama bear were around, she would SO cut me!
Maybe they can co-opt her with salmon?

The natural world is a beautiful thing.

Can’t read at home anymore. It’s too quiet.
They’re plotting something.

I'm safe at the office.


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NATIONAL DOUGHNUT DAY

Having just found out that today is National Doughnut Day, I am anxious that it should be celebrated in fit style.

Which, like all holidays, is by getting riotously drunk and wearing silly hats.
Not that I have any intention of doing so myself.
I want young people to do it.
They do it so well.

Go at it!

I am somewhat upset that we don't get a day off for this venerable celebration which has been around since 1938, especially as it is much more meaningful than most holidays. Donuts were once our national food, before the invention of pizza.

And donuts, as I'm sure you are well aware, are one of two great Dutch-American contributions to our culture. The other one being scalping. We Nieuw Amsterdammers taught the natives how to scalp. My ancestors did. In between eating donuts.
I feel so proud.
The world has not been the same since.
Sudden hairloss and growing obesity.
That's some pretty profound stuff.
We're clearly a force for good.

Today is for celebrating Dutch-American achievement.


甜圈節 TIM KUEN JIT

Even more amazing than the discovery that today is National Doughnut Day was seeing that Wikipedia also describes it in Chinese.

Quote:
甜甜圈日（英語：National Doughnut Day）是救世軍為了表揚在第一次世界大戰中提供甜甜圈給士兵的婦女們而設立的，訂於每年6月的第一個星期五；這一天許多美國的甜甜圈店會提供數量不等的免費甜甜圈給顧客。
End quote.

Source: 甜甜圈日

From this we learn that a doughnut is a "sweet-sweet circle" (甜甜圈), and that the Salvation army (救世軍) engages in the "succor (of) generations" (救世).

I think I'll enjoy it all the more now that I'm aware of this.

Happy holiday, everyone.  Enjoy the party!

You have all weekend to recover.


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BACK AWAY FROM THE CRUNCHY SNACKS!

A discussion with a friend recently about raccoons in his neighborhood revealed that he is paranoid about those creatures. He swears that they wait underneath cars for him to come stumbling home drunk at night, whereupon (so they intend) they will leap out and steal his wallet, as well as that brown paper bag filled with crispy fish tacos he was planning to eat for breakfast.

So far they haven't succeeded, but it's only a matter of time.
One of these days he'll be drunk again.
Then they'll strike.

Tacos!

As a pre-emptive manoeuvre, he has been buying the loyalty of the feral neighborhood cats by putting out food for them during daylight hours, when there are no raccoons about. The cats have gratefully tucked in, and have become really fond him.
His loyal cat army, feline mercenaries.

Unfortunately raccoons wipe the floor with cats. He had not realized that.  One raccoon can whup any number of pussies single handedly. Single pawedly.  Paws.
There are several raccoons. Only three cats.
The cats don't even organize.
He's totally hosed.
His cat legions are no match for the furry savages.
He feels like a Roman emperor, whose borders are besieged by the barbarians.

Vandals! Goths! Persians!


"They're brutalizing my subjects!"


In his mind, it's all about civilization versus the savage Hunnish hordes.
The hordes are enslaving the cats. His cats! It's personal now!
That, and the fact that he's too scared to buy tacos.

I've told him to lock his doors and hide under the bed.
That's the only advice that I have.
I'm rooting for him.
Sort of.


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THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES

Each man is different. All of them will have something peculiar to them alone. And everyone has different moods, tastes, interests, and peccadilloes.
I realized this while in the elevator today next to a gigantic woman who could probably toss me against the ceiling while kicking down a steel door.
She wore a wedding band.

Her husband is probably one of these three types:

1. Unnaturally short and weasely.
2. A big glandular freak.
3. Normal.

I've always preferred women who are shorter than me. The angle is just right, you see. You cannot admire a nice forehead and an intelligent face when you're looking up at her chin (or if her bosom is at eye level).
Part of it is the lazy man's approach to female appreciation, part of it is sheer practicality and aesthetics.
Intelligent women are so much more wonderful when they aren't threatening.


THE PERFECT LADY

The ideal woman has a sense of humour, curiosity, and perspective. These three are key tools for getting through life and dealing with society, especially men.

Imagine, for instance, that a momentary lapse of all three of those faculties hitched her to an individual who lazes around the house on weekends in his raggies, watching sports and drinking beer.
Naturally, the logical thing to do is file for divorce.
The marriage was clearly a stroke of insanity; now it's time to move on.

However he might actually be a decent bloke with a keen interest in literature and philosophy, and not realize that his chosen method of relaxation is rather numbnuts. A good man, albeit 'misguided'.
Redeemable.

The woman with a sense of humour, curiosity, and perspective will instinctively grasp that blasting him with a firehose is the best thing to do. Not only will it wake him up to alternative relaxational methodologies (and get him to change his clothes), it will counteract the deletorious effect of that six-pack, and distract him from the big heaving gorillas on screen, however briefly. Done often enough, it becomes Pavlovian in its power.
What will he do? Will he change his habits? Let us find out!
Full of scientific curiosity, she turns the water on full blast.
A noble experiment.

Worst case scenario: he takes off his wet clothes and mows the lawn.
Your neighbors needed a goodly dose of realism anyway.
He actually looks kinda splendid in the sun.
All throbbing muscles and sinew.
Except for the beergut.
Wobbly-gobbly.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must inform you that the scenario above is purely hypothetical, and not something of which I have any experience. It is wholly imaginary.
I am not married, I never watch sports, don't ponce around in raggies (nude, yes, raggies, no), seldom drink beer, and I frequently change my clothes, even on the weekend.
Neither a lawn nor a firehose are among my possessions.
I am unthrobbing, and ungutted.

Other than the three characteristics mentioned above, the ideal woman is kindhearted, and courteous toward strangers.  Gallant, and sincerely considerate of other people.
A woman of valour, whose worth is beyond rubies.

Exceptionally rare, too.

Unfortunately.


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DETAIL ORIENTED TO THE POINT OF MADNESS

It really isn’t a very big deal, and I should not let it form wrinkles on the spotless tablecloth of my mind.
But it bothers me. My Asperger syndrome tendencies just re-awoke, big time.
Grr.


INCORRECT STREET ADDRESS!

One of our major customers electronically transmitted a series of orders to be delivered to a location in Shenzhen.
They mis-spelled the address.
There is no such location as “Shenhan Dong”.

Shenhan? Dong?  Dong?!?

It’s not like the actual building is easily overlooked, though. And to architects it is probably quite well-known.
This is one of the tallest skyscrapers (摩天大樓) in China. Second tallest in Shenzhen. You’d think they would get the address of so impressive and imposing a structure right.


深圳市 羅湖區 深南東路 5002號 信興廣場 ‘xx’ 樓 (深圳市 罗湖区 深南东路 5002号 信兴广场 ‘xx’ 楼).
[Cantonese pronunciation: sam jan si, lo wu keui, sam naam tung lo, 5002 ho, sun hing gwong cheung, 'xx' lau.]

Dudes, the correct spelling of the street is NO secret.
Please consult Wikipedia.

Shun Hing Commercial Centre, no. 5002 Shen Nan East Road, Luohu District, Shenzhen City.

深圳 sam jan (shen zhen): deep ditch.  市 si (shi): city.  羅湖 lo wu (luo hu): gossamer lake.  區 keui (qu): district.  深南 sam naam (shen nan): deep south.  東 tung (dong): east.  路 lo (lu): road.  號 ho (hao): number.  信興 sun hing (xin xing): trust flourishing.  廣場 kwong cheung (guang chang): square, plaza, commercial centre.  樓 lau (lou): floor, etage, storey; a multi-storeyed building.

It's also called the 地王大廈 (Mandarin: di wang dai xia; Cantonese: dei wong taai haa), in case you were curious.  Hence the name it is otherwise known as: 'Di Wang Commercial Centre'.
Of course the address remains the same.
Please get it right!


ADDENDUM

摩天大樓 (skyscraper) literally means a "scrape the skies big building".
摩 mo: rub, scrape, scour.
天 tin: skies, heaven; celestial.
大 taai: big, huge, very very large.
樓 lau: a multistoried building, but not always - sometimes it's a single storied commercial enterprise grandly named. Such as, for instance, a dim sum restaurant (茶樓 chaa lau).

Shenhan dong. Good lord.
Hmmph.


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FALLING FOR THEIR EYES

Momentary panic when I realized that there were indeed two people waiting outside.
I blame my lack of foresight. I should have known. Often there are at least two of them, one at either end of the block. Sometimes more than two.
See, the lack of foresight applies to the money in my wallet.
Only ONE single!
Normally I have at least six or seven singles, just in case.

I gave the solitary single to the likeable dude with the missing teeth waiting at the near corner. He’s a very gentle person, and always looks somewhat baffled and hurt. Like many of our street people, he’s not quite ready for prime time.
No, I don’t know his story. But it’s fairly obvious that life hasn’t been working out particularly well for him. He keeps himself clean, and probably gets housing assistance or lives with a roommate in a fleabag hotel room.
I never buy the street sheet he sells, just give him a buck whenever I see him and say hello.

The other guy was across the street from the smoker’s wall. When I got there I asked some of the others if they could break a twenty. During the entire time I was there enjoying my pipe, I could see him standing helplessly on the opposite sidewalk, shyly offering his newspapers to the passing lunch crowd. No one stopped.
Perhaps they’ve already seen the latest edition of the street sheet?
That would certainly explain why they weren’t buying a copy.

I have this little routine when I’ve finished the mid-day pipe. After cleaning the briar, I twist the used pipe-cleaners into a little spiky octopus shape. Then I go across the street, give the street-sheet man a dollar, and dump the octopus into the grating between the parked motorbikes. 
There's a five year deposit down there already.
It will be years before that drain is filled.
In the meantime, one dollar a day.

Later on the legless fellow with the equitable temperament will be outside, tincupping the rushing office-workers on their way home. Perhaps the tall thin gentleman with the beautiful smile and warm eyes will be on the other side of the street.
That’s two more dollars.

I haven’t seen Elmo in a while. He always tells everybody it’s his seventieth birthday.
He’s probably been doing that for years now. He looks much older than that.
I hope the old coot is okay, he looks kind of bony and fragile.

There's also a small bent woman on Sansome Street near the Starbucks.
I see her there two or three mornings on my way in. Remarkably, I've never noticed the customers of that coffee joint give her any money.
I have to wonder if they even leave any tips when they pick up their grande frappudrinkies.
Maybe the six-dollars it costs for their daily caffeine is all they can afford.
Oh, and their dry-cleaning. But that's a business expense!

A long time ago I saw someone else also give her money.
That person was not drinking designer coffee.
Which may be a significant datum.


Yes, I guess I encourage the sparechangers in the financial district.
Some of them need all the encouragement they can get.
San Francisco is not gentle for the down and out.

That’s why there’s always a line at Glide.

A long, lean, hungry line.


If you’re not super-enthused about giving money to random strangers in public, despite their extremely low overhead and very negligible operating costs, perhaps you could donate a little bit to a worthy cause?

To donate by mail, please make your checks payable to GLIDE and send to:

GLIDE
Development Office
330 Ellis Street
San Francisco, CA 94102

For donations by phone, please call the Development Office with your credit card info.

Phone: 415-674-6070


You can read more about Glide Memorial Church here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glide_Memorial_Church.
I think you'll agree that it's a good place.
That's just a suggestion.


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GLORIOUS SOLITUDE

Three day holidays are made for wandering around the downtown.
I’m enjoying the peace and quiet, the sense of not having to interact, and the just general restfulness of a city that’s almost deserted while everyone has gone to the beach or the mountains.
Now if only the tourists would leave, everything would be perfect.
Nobody but us old geezers wandering peacefully through a dream-state, with our various smoking equipments, and beatific attitudes, and kindly glinting eyes, enjoying the silence and the nicotine.

Occasionally savouring a bowl of rice porridge or noodle soup.

So far it's been a very good day. Everyone understood every word I said. You might not think that remarkable, but considering that from Stockton and Clay till I got to the office I did not use a word of English, I'm feeling pretty chuffed about that.
The quest for snackiepoos. 叉燒酥. Looking over a rack of books. Another cup of coffee.  豆沙餅. Discussion about sharkfin and deer antler fuzz. 
A query about a particular word - I know the meaning, but how is it pronounced?
Ah, so!

茸

A full bowl of aged Red Virginia Flake in a favourite pipe, darkened and shiny from much handling. Ghostly whisps of ancient fragrance trailing down deserted streets, finishing with a final ethereal trace of sweetness ere crossing California.  There's nothing left but fine white ash.
Now for a nice cup of tea, and a spot of reading.
Three day holidays are for the internet.



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